Medical Knife
by The Broken Chain
Summary: John has a secret coping mechanism, one he kept from his sleuth best-friend, and one he wishes to keep from him. When his habits come back after a long absence, John starts a secret blog to keep from harming himself. Sherlock will try his best, but can he help John the way he needs? Self harm/depression included Johnlock friendship hurt/comfort Rated T (M)
1. First Temptation

_DISCLAIMER: While the contents of the following chapters are my own, the characters themselves belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in his world of Sherlock Holmes, as modernly adapted in BBC's TV series Sherlock, aired on PBS Masterpiece. THIS IS FAN FICTION. And this is my fan fiction, originally._

_With that said, there are a few things I must go over before you begin the story._

_One: TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM DEPICTED IN THIS PIECE OF FAN FICTION_

_Two: I enjoyed writing this a lot. It was difficult to get into their rhythm of communication, but I feel that I did a decent job. _

_Three: There are a lot of Sherlock self-harm stories, and while I see the ease with which one could write one about Sherlock's suspicious long-sleeve attire, I find that it is overdone and often not done well (in my opinion). With that being said, I wanted to see what might happen on the other end of the spectrum, with John. His potential for self harm is just as high, and is much less explored. Although it is unlikely that he would have actually hut himself, I would ask you to overlook that and tell me what you think of this adaptation._

_NOTE/ This happens before the Richenbach (spelling?) Fall, because it's the easiest time period to write for. I didn't want to write a lot on crime or with other characters, so it's more like an isolated work, dealing mostly with Sherlock and John, their relationship, and the difficulties of self-harm._

_I enjoyed this so much. Tell me what you think! More chapters to ensue._

_Finally, I will ask again that you not read if self-harm upsets you._

_Thank you. Feedback greatly appreciated._

* * *

Medical Knife

Jolting in his sleep, slightly, barely raising a voice in his night-hours, John's eyes opened wide as he woke from another bad dream. His chest unclenched and the pent –up breath residing at the farthest-end of his throat finally let out, like the tension in a tea kettle before it finally cried out. But John didn't cry out, and he never did. Even when he lived alone—when he was truly alone—he didn't ever make a sound. He'd breathe heavily, sometimes bolt upright when the dream was too intense and in-the-moment, sometimes take a moment to regain his mind by walking around or taking a shower. But he was mostly quiet, now more than ever. He knew that Sherlock was aware of his nightmares – actually, they'd eased off for the most part, only coming when he was under stress at work or otherwise—but he still liked to keep his privacy where he could. The man could read his every facial movement, every nervous mannerism that John, mostly, was uninformed of. He could tell when he was upset at the secretary, the reason behind his hesitance to attend certain crime scenes, when his sister, Harry, would call and why. He even knew when John had a bad night. He knew everything, so he might as well have this one, lonely, temporarily-terrifying moment to himself.

John sat up in his bed, more shaken than usual from his nightmare. He had no reason to be dreaming like that _now_, not under such calm circumstances. Sure, Sherlock was being himself, whining about how dull he was, how boring things around the flat were without an interesting case, conducting experiments at all hours, though, thankfully, not shooting up the walls. Work wasn't even so active, with so many people on holiday and his taking a few personal days for himself. He shook his head, then stretched his unclothed arms above his head.

"Ow," he said immediately, dropping his arms to his mattress. His muscles were so wound tight that he couldn't even stretch without causing a ripping sensation between his shoulder blade and neck. His spine felt close to fracturing. He was probably just being dramatic, but, still, that moment in his dark room was still a painful one. Splashed in the backdrop of his thoughts was the blood of the friends he couldn't save, back in Afghanistan, with the residual pain he sustained long after his commission. "Damn." He wouldn't be getting much sleep. A fast look to his bedside clock's glaring face showed it to be half past three in the morning, and judging from the lack of commotion down stairs, Sherlock was either sleeping or out. He would most likely be out, as sleeping was boring and wasted too much time. At least he would be able to walk about without a barrage of questions being thrown at him, and a thousand different tasks to be asked—no, demanded. John stood and flicked on his light, then thought better of getting dressed. He was alone. No need for too much modesty, he decided, content to his long sleeping shorts and bare chest. Beside, he needed to cool down, as he worked up a hot sweat in his unconscious hours. Descending the stairs, sighing with a strange kind of joy as his uncovered chest met the cooler air of the rest of the flat, he took a quick look around to confirm that he was alone. Sherlock was quite and unobtainable when he wanted to be, and at half past three, that is exactly what the consulting detective wanted to be: nonexistent.

John's unruly, dirty-blond hair stuck out at unflattering angles, as he caught from his reflection in the restroom. He took his assumed position in his chair and took out his laptop, not quite sure what he wanted – update the blog? Nothing has happened… - but there at least was the potential for distraction. The room was filled with clutter, all of which was left to rest where it was by none other than the hand of Sherlock, which usually annoyed John, even as he sat there. But his shoulder hurt too much, and the night was too agonizingly slow for him to set off to do such a tedious chore. He contented himself to staring at an empty search engine bar until inspiration strikes. His eyes fluttered, shame and embarrassment shining in his irises as he considered what he was considering. He _really _wanted to do it. He _was _going to do it, even without knowing his own motivation. He looked up, listening to the flat, praying he truly was alone before typing in his and Sherlock's name onto the flashing line. Times when he was lonely, he was thankful for his flat mate's presence, however pretentious and evasive that presence may be.

So, he reasoned, it made sense that he wanted to see his friend, even if it was just an image on a screen of flashing LEDs. Several pictures of him and Sherlock were brought up instantly, and he felt more at ease to the two of them together. He chuckled at the memories associated with the pictures. Sherlock hated every public event he attended solely for the fact that none would forbid photographers from attending. His half-grin failed him as, as he feared – yet knew better than to think oppositely of – a hovering gaze leaned over his shoulder, over the edge of John's seat. Curious inquiry over why John laughed out loud and, supposedly, disturbing Sherlock from his deep thought, Sherlock simply stared, dragon-like stillness in his bent posture, onto the results page on his blogger's computer screen.

John's heart, surviving traumas such as war and death, momentarily stalled to a dead-stop when he finally noticed the statue of a man, nearing the screen in the pursuit of more detailed information.

"Jesus," John mumbled, blinking twice. "I thought you were out."

"Hm. How very observant, doctor, of you to think I was out. Even you should have been able to find me in the closet – I'm aware of a game children play wherein they find ridiculous and obvious hiding spots in hopes of outlasting their peers as a chosen child is forced to hunt them down one by one. I'm more than positive you participated in this activity as a child because, really, John, what child, normal child, I should say—what normal child hasn't at least once tried to hunt down his friends? Did it even occur to you to think why my shoes weren't gone? You think I would stalk down the streets of London in the dark without shoes? And a coat? Leaving my hydrochloric acid out when it clearly needs attending?" Sherlock knew he went on long enough, and waited for an answer, giving up quickly when it was certain he would receive none. "I could go on, but I thought I'd list the clues of which even you would be capable of drawing a rudimentary deduction."

"What were you doing in the closet?" John was curious only about the closet comment. Sherlock looked defeated for just a moment.

He tilted his head to stare slantways at the semi-flustered John Watson. "You, as much as I expect, fail to see the point. Now, I ask, why are you awake? Isn't this a time you normally spend asleep?"

John really had no patience for this, or the nerve to deal with being caught doing something he deemed to be embarrassing by the consulting detective. "Can you give me some space, eh?"

Sherlock sighed over-dramatically, leaving his side with the intention of seeking some form of mediocre entertainment. Quickly, John got up from his seat, thinking he should leave before getting lassoed into doing something for an experiment he had no interest in. Shutting down his laptop, filling the room with silence from an idle hard-drive, he set it aside and ran as quickly and silently as his protesting muscles would let him.

Eying his messy bed, he sloppily, lazily, hit the light switch so that he could bathe in the near-blackness of his room. Atop the covers he laid, and, with the strangest thoughts running through his tired brain, he rested the ends of his left hand's fingers on his thigh, running them up slowly as he connected with something even he considered dangerous. High and past the bottoms of his blue-striped sleep shorts, he felt to the old, far more private scars. These were the testimony of his own battle – of every battle he faced. And he was positive, absolutely positive, that they were the one thing he had to himself. His chest rose and fell a little faster when he brushed over the first bump. Inflicted upon his thigh's flesh by his own blade, vertical raises of scar tissue served as a permanent reminder of his past. It was one year that he had remained clean, since the last time he ever had the real urge to hurt himself. He'd done so in the war when he needed pain killer and was without any – endorphins, he justified, needed to be released. No, he wasn't addicted.

And at any rate, he remained clean for a long time. Never even a thought about harming again, even when he occasionally found himself looking at his scars. He had Sherlock to thank for that.

His eyes felt heavy, but something kept him up for just a little while longer. There was a clanging in the kitchen that startled him – as if he'd been caught thinking something, and a certain, seemingly mind-reading detective might know. He rubbed his eyes in frustration, wondering why the hell he even went down stairs, or why he wanted to see Sherlock. He'd been caught. It was harmless really. Sherlock certainly wouldn't care beyond a moment's curiosity, which, as the continued ruckus downstairs attested to, was already passed. He shouldn't have felt so exposed.

He was lying when he said he hadn't recently considered taking up his old habit again. He clutched at the weaves of his mattress when he knew he lingered too long over his scars.

It was one of the worst feelings he experienced. There it was, unprompted, the desire to bring the coldness of steel down on his skin. He refused to believe it was in the name of boredom – the most exhausted excuse, at least in his flat—so he searched his curtain for signs of light while, also, searching himself for a reason to be thrown back into his teenage emotions, his mechanism for dealing with trauma.

God, how he wanted to sleep. Strike that. No, that wouldn't be any good—he might dream again, and god forbid he dream about the war again, he might just have a dream about knives. No, he wanted a distraction. Anything. Unfortunately enough, he left his laptop downstairs, and the idea that struck him was too strong to deny. Muscles aside, he was determined enough to leave the comfort of his room in a private-ops mission to retrieve his computer. He looked, he really did—Sherlock was most definitely in the kitchen, making noise over with god knows what in pursuit of something John questioned even Sherlock knew. Boredom was a powerful and risky companion, but in that moment, it worked, just once, in John's favor, and he was able to escape with his dignity and privacy intact.

Another fortunate turn for John was that his battery was fully charged. In his room, dressed in a robe, he sat on the edge of his bed, just in the middle, legs crossed and dangling haphazardly over the edge as he set out to blog.

Though, this was a different blog. A new one, certainly, but completely different than the one he ran on his daily, exposed life which, now over the past year, included Sherlock and his fantastic forensic adventures. This one, under a pseudonym, was meant solely for his own good will. He hated wanting to hurt himself. He hated wanting to drink (sometimes) when he knew very well what that could do to a person, as his sister demonstrated often enough. He was a soldier and was supposed to be in control, and not loose visible sobriety or awareness. That's what made cutting so easy, so practical—the control, the secrecy, the ability to hide his certain type of drug and be his best in whatever situation may arise. It really was the best thing a soldier could do.

He groaned, realizing how much he was thinking about it, and set out with his newly formed blog for those with PTSD, self-harm issues, and depression. He didn't, currently, have depression, but he knew that with his sudden want to do himself some degree of harm, and his adamant stance to keep from doing so again, he would definitely have problems being and appearing happy.

And Sherlock couldn't know. About any of it. He could not be allowed to see, because then he would know, and he might think just a little less of John. Of course he knew he wouldn't fault him for it—he might not even mention his obvious change of mood just for the fact that it was too obvious a statement to make—but… John shook his head. He hated wanting to impress that faultless man. Yes, he had his faults, but they were what he liked about him, what he didn't mind to "tolerate". He was his best friend. And as any other friend, he would make sure to be his best for him.

The blog looked half decent, with only a few minutes of customization. He would tell no one about it. He would also help others in similar positions. He felt nervous to post his first post. He wasn't sure what to say, how to phrase it, or if it would even be the thing he needed it to be. But it was necessary. Maybe. He still couldn't decide on it.

He began to type. It started out rough, but he didn't have the mind to change it. These are his thoughts. They don't need to be so clean cut as his other blog needed to be.

_My name is Sean and I don't really know what to say here._

He bit his lip and tilted his head. Good enough. No one following him, yet, anyway.

_I am a man, and like any other person, man or woman, I have issues. These issues are considered weak, or strictly for those of the female half of the species, but nevertheless they are mine. I am proof that self-harm, depression, and PTSD are very real and affect all sort of people, regardless of nation, gender, or confidence. Uh. I guess, because I understand these things, I can help you, if you ever need someone to talk to. I would only ask your patience when you decide to check my blog, however few times you do, because I know for sure that these posts are going to be getting heavy. Just now, for the first time in a year (since my last trauma) I felt the need to use a knife. I don't know why, now, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I would want to. Well… I guess that's not the complete truth. I thought about it briefly a few days ago, but it was in response to nothing. Life has actually been pretty decent. I recently took time off work, even, and I've just been hanging around the house with my flat mate… sure, he's a little difficult to deal with. But. Honestly. I owe him a lot. It has been his difference in my life that took away a lot of my pains, a lot of things I didn't even know needed attention. And ever since moving in with him – I must stress that I am not gay, though I have no problems with anyone who is—ever since, I've not had these sorts of desires… and so I am completely baffled as to why I've started having trauma-flashbacks. Maybe that's part of it. Oh. My apologies. I've said far too much for a first post. Please, talk to me if ever you need help. I'm in the medical field, so I know a thing or two. That is all. – Sean_

John stared at his post. Now his heart really did stop, or beat too fast that it appeared at a stand-still. He liked it, sort of. But did he want to release it for the world to see? What if someone saw it and recognized him? What if Sherlock found it?

But Sherlock never checked his blog, or any blog for that matter, but especially not his—at least, not without prompt from John or Lestrade when it became necessary. Necessity was a rare thing when it regarded John's crime blog. It was a tough first step, but he deemed it a safe, anonymous first step at that. Why would Sherlock even bother with something dealing with self-harm, help and advice? John smiled, clicking the "publish" button he'd been hovering over for more than a few minutes, a weight lifted from his chest. At least he didn't feel desperate anymore. Release was a wonderful thing. But, as with any pleasurable release, it brought on a wave of tire – more so, now that he checked his blaring clock, that it was nearly five in the morning. The black-out curtains behind him glowed at the uncovered edges as a slender beam of sunlight coasted over the sleeping face of London. He felt incredibly lucky still to be on holiday.

He listened intently as he set aside his turned-off laptop, amazed at the persistence of Sherlock. More sounds were issuing up the column of the staircase, things he wasn't sure how to pin—between a loud, pulsing vibration and an electrical hum? Was there violin playing as well? Whatever was the clicking sound? Like soles of shoes banging…

John laughed out loud, quite loudly, but couldn't help doing so. "The closet!" He exclaimed, and fell asleep quickly with one of the most peaceful smiles on his face that he'd ever worn to bed.


	2. Sign of Three

_DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters. No profits have come from this story._

_WARNING: This is a self-harm story._

_A/N: This chapter is a bit more focused on John and Sherlock's relationship and include a few personal observations about self harm. I notice that I become a semi-smart-ass in my narrative, also - I usually don't write third-person, so I'm sorry if there's a style change._

_I'm open to criticism._

_Thank you for reading. Enjoy:)_

* * *

Medical Knife

"So, were you testing vibrations and frequencies last night? Of random things around the house, I mean?" John asked. He had the kettle on, a tea-bag ready to be steeped at the ready-and-waiting words of the near-boiling water. He'd walked into the kitchen ten minutes before, catching Sherlock in a doze of sorts, sleeping on a counter-stool with his hands propped under his chin. His eyes were half open, and John laughed, accidentally but not unhappily startling Sherlock into waking. He was now in a fairly foul mood.

"Obviously. How many times did I tell you that the harmonics of a 100 milliliter glass beaker sounded oddly similar to that of a violin filled with lighter fluid? I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it before. They measure up. Sort of. I have to do more experiments, but I have my suspicions. No matter that. It's obvious. It's dull now. John, dear John, do you have to pass by everything in your life without a single curious thought about them? Just _think_! You are a doctor and an incredibly good one—how _can't_ you be capable of using your brain?"

John didn't know whether to take the compliment or the insult, so was at a loss for how to react. He had a simple, older jumper on, and fiddled with the edges of the wrist-collars that, to his sad observation, were starting to fray. Settling on an awkward expression, he sighed. "Yes, I'm fond of you as well." Oh, the sarcasm. What a pity it was wasted on Sherlock, who had a vacant look on his still-drowsy face. John had seen it many times, and will always see it when his taller counterpart – yes, they are indeed counterparts— gets bored and abandons reality to search the corners of his mind. His Mind Palace was an annoying place, and took up too much time for navigation. John couldn't wait for the kettle to break-loose in a shriek and thoroughly rattle the genius.

Which, to his glee, it did.

"John!"

John laughed full-heartedly, pouring his tea on the messy counter. "Sherlock!" He mimicked his friend's tone.

"You couldn't have done something about that _before_ it wrecked my thought-process?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

That was usually Sherlock's line. He was astonished and wordless to hear it used against him. John rolled his eyes, taking a drink of his tea. "Dramatic, tsk tsk. Go on, I won't disturb you anymore."

John walked back to the living room, turned on the currently-boring telly, and took out his laptop. He'd been nervous that maybe, somehow, miraculously, Sherlock would have picked up on something late in the night that would link him to being stressed, or his coping mechanisms. But, as far as he could tell, it was trivial, and he probably already deleted the whole scene from his memory—hopefully, even the part involving John searching for pictures of them, together, online.

His computer booted quickly. He should have felt a presence behind him, a piercing eye looking downward onto the man sitting oblivious and chuckling in his designated seat. No, he shouldn't have, because Sherlock didn't intend him to.

_Load tabs?_

John didn't even think about it—why should he? He was _alone_. Sort of.

He let his tabs restore to their most recent state, the way they were left seven hours before. And, on the one screen for a site familiar to Sherlock, John left it open just a second too long. Sherlock didn't recognize the URL, but he knew it was Johns – of course, he had control of all its settings, had already decorated it with encouraging mottos and text-boxes – and it was enough for him to memorize the name of the blog. John clicked away from it quickly – a little panicked, but not completely, because, he wasn't being watched. Sherlock was still throwing a fit in the kitchen. John did, though, turn around out of paranoia. Sherlock already knew he would do this and was out of sight, just as quietly as he approached, leaving the open area apparently empty to John who would then relax when his paranoia was proved false.

We return to John, who had the oddest, most fleeting sensation of being watched—damn Sherlock, he was pulling the same crap as the night before! Hopefully he didn't see anything, still, _hide this like your life depends on it_. He turned around and only met his suspicion with an eyeful of an undecorated wall. He licked his lips, and returned to his laptop. He posted a quick, uneventful post on his main, popular, now known as the _detective, _blog. He would wait until he had the opportunity to be alone and secure before even daring to think about his secret blog-space. The sudden paranoia that overcame him also brought out certain _things_ in John that he didn't want to admit to—or think about, not with Sherlock around. Childish, yes, it may be, though unavoidable, to consider that Sherlock, inhuman, unsleeping, minimal-eating, super-detective, might have mind-reading abilities. A lot of people would think so. John would too, except for the fact that he knew better. Still… no chances should be taken. Awake, he considered the real reactions Sherlock might have to his proclivities. Cutting was irrational, provided no chemical alteration, only a minimal reward, and would be beyond his capacity to understand—that is, until Sherlock would become curious and try it himself. John paled against the thought and tried to shake it. Cutting. No. Bad. Don't Cut. Cutt—

"JOHN!"

Around the corner, Sherlock strode, long legs bounding past John as he came to stand properly and politely in front of him. He was serious looking.

John, however, half slid from his very matte chair at the sudden exclamation. He looked as fearing as a teenager found parked in the backseat with another teenager, usually, though not limited to, the same gender. But with so much more to loose. He kept his mind as far away from blades as possible. "Wh-what?" John, soldier and doctor, nerves of steel – _stuttering_? That, he was certain, caught his friend's attention.

Sherlock quirked a dark, curiously curvy eyebrow, ever so slightly, noticing John's timid reaction. "We have a case."

John resettled himself, righting his bent, nearly-fallen posture, erecting himself in hope to save face in time. "No. Nope. Not. A. Single. Case. You, obviously, can. I, on the other hand, cannot. I refuse to. I am on holiday—"

"Not a real holiday. There weren't enough sick people at your work to sustain your pay while they receive nothing."

"—_I am on holiday_, and I refuse to do anything stressful."

"So, cases are stressful, are they?"

John scoffed. "_Even you_ might realize that one. Of course they are. Why wouldn't they be?"

"I always—

"Almost always,"

"— always solve it."

John said nothing, running his hand through his hair, definitely feeling stress coming on, and sudden discomfort under the overbearing, observing gaze of the detective. This would get him nowhere. Say it plain, don't argue. "I am on holiday, and I wish to waste it in the flat doing absolutely nothing. I have four more days before I'm back. In four days, I will tag along, but until then, _I'm staying right the bloody hell here._ Unless I decide otherwise. Text me all you want. Be safe. Good-bye."

Sherlock wasn't above pouting. He was expected to do so, especially when not getting his way. But this time, Sherlock just spared him a look. At first he seemed about to say something, something rude, something less than his well-meaning friend deserved. But that passed, and he just looked at him. Empathy? No, that wasn't it. John had enough time to stare back, for maybe thirty seconds, while trying to pin the expression on his face. Sympathy? Nope. Humor? Fear? Madness? Plain not-understanding? None of the above, none of the conceivable, could be applied to Sherlock. Was he high? No. He'd seen that once, and he'd never seen it again. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a little kinder than pity. Sherlock didn't do emotion—not very well—so it was hard to identify when it actually happened.

Thirty seconds rolls around, and John finds himself fidgety like a restless cat as Sherlock rouses. "You heard me, right, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

John made loose, swirly hand gestures, pinning his eyebrows a bit. "And you understand?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Maybe I shoulda asked, _'do you understand my reasoning?'_"

"Of course, I understand. You underestimate me."

Now John felt a little guilty. Even more nervous. There are knives in the kitche—"I'm sorry. I mean it. I just need to rest. I think I'm coming down with an illness."

That caught his attention. John, regretfully, could see the inquisition-gears turning in his friends now-lit azure-chrome eyes. "You're a doctor, you should know whether or not you're sick."

"I'm. Sick."

A slight smirk came to Sherlock. "You haven't seen anyone in over a week. I haven't met with anyone in over a week. Mrs. Hudson is healthier than a racing horse. I'm certainly not a medical professional – that would be, I think you'd agree, a laughable contradiction – but I believe I know enough to say that you, if you were exposed in your now lacking-cliental work, you would probably already be sick. If it were the common cold, a flu, a stomach virus… I understand if you want to stay home during this holiday. You should have a break, but don't act as if I couldn't tell what you really meant by claiming to be sick. Don't think I'm so delicate that I couldn't handle a few cases without your precious though really not necessary help."

Ouch. There was some animosity, but it was covered up very well, for Sherlock. That last bit, however, got to John, who shrunk back a bit.

"I didn't mean to," John started, making excuses, then catching himself. Booze was cheap down the st— "I'm sorry."

Another few silent seconds passed, and in those John considered the use of cigarettes. He knew of a few somewhat hidden hiding spots of Sherlock's.

"I will be back," Sherlock said at the end of the pause, less bite in his words, walking away. It seems that he did so not knowing that his well-intended words left John less than happy.

"Be safe," John said, hoarse, or maybe without oxygen, as he was holding his breath and counting down from fifteen. He just wanted Sherlock out, though he was afraid what might happen then—there are two ways, he was sure, this could go. One, he blogs, he finds release in letting his tension and hurt out online under a pseudonym. Sherlock was just, at most, a minute away from leaving…

Risk relapse or ask a friend for help?

A minute passes fast under fear. Sherlock was bounding down the stairs, urgent in wanting to end his extended-period of incredible boredom.

John stretched his fingers over the keyboard, deciding it best to keep to himself. He would feel best this way. More secure. Less afraid. Less upset. More in control.

He opened a private browsing tab with his URL and began typing just as the downstairs door opened and quickly settled back in the frame. He wrote as clearly as if he had it planned – which, he supposed, he did. This one particular instance, he was in relative friendly-correspondence with his emotions. Emotions were tricky, even to people who never isolated themselves from them. Certainly, they were never his strong point.

But they were, just this once, cooperative.

_I don't usually get upset. I'll get frustrated, I can admit to—and that's usually just in the short term, in response to my flat mate. Just like right now. I feel it dying down now, but, as I said, I don't usually have a great response to that sort of thing. Stress isn't easy. It never had been (my teenage years were filled with self-harm). I've tried other things over the course of my life – drugs, sadly, were where I started in my attempts to stay away from the knife. They didn't stick, and contrary to becoming addicted, I did want to go to school and do well. Then, one night, I tried beer. I never liked being out of control, of myself, the situation, and the way I react to a situation. Beer is recreational and occasional at best, if ever. Cigarettes actually stuck for a while, but, as one in the medical field would know and not be able to ignore, they are dangerous. I may have my issues, but that doesn't mean I want to kill myself. Anyway… So, I moved on, and finally, when I exhausted all other means of coping, of controlling, I picked up a knife—it was a regrettable decision, because I had been clean for years. It was a sterile knife, of course. I made sure it wasn't in a noticeable place, and I did well not to let it run too-deep or over any major arteries. I've never needed stitches—well, once, I gave myself some… but it was once, and it scared the bloody hell out of me. Just a note, I don't advocate self-harm. It's a miserable existence, because the reliance you obtain from it in such a short amount of time isn't healthy, or easy to break. It really does hurt, not to harm. It will hurt every so often, even after you've been clean for years. Just like I felt just now, feeling guilty all the same as I looked to my friend and tried not to think of doing something to myself. It was an underestimated but intense moment, and it has been a while since I had to deal like this._

The next words scared John. He'd thought them privately before. He'd never say them if there was a remote chance Sherlock could hear them—which, there always was a chance of. He'd hardly gone so far as to admit to himself of feeling this way. But, here it goes.

_I really don't want to disappoint him. He's come to mean so much to me. He's the one person in the world who has the capacity to keep me sane. If it were something I were comfortable saying to him, I would divulge that I love him. He truly meant everything to a man slowly dissolving from his mind, outward. He gave me things, sure: danger, intrigue, a challenge. But he also was just _there_. It's hard to explain, but essentially I feel better with him around. I think it's him, and his presence, that means so much. He's also a man who hates nearly everyone, so when he lets you move in and establish yourself as a flat mate, you know for sure that he reciprocates some sort of affection. I did mention that we're not a couple, right?_

John's typing came to a gradual halt, and the tension, once again, started to escape his bodily-container, a valve opening to the pressure of the tank that would otherwise explode without its doing so. That seemed as good a place to leave his post as any other he could come up with. He'd exhausted his emotional resources, and was too burnt-out to really want to force anymore script. Yes, it was good, and he published.

"Oh," he tilted his head, returning to his main page. He had three followers. He had to applaud his article-tagging ability, and did so with a celebratory smile. It felt good to know he wasn't alone in feeling so alone, so pathetic and dangerous. It felt good to know people related to him and sought some help, which he would give with passion.

_Boysalsocry142, RexUnplugged, _and _Two-reactions21base_ were his followers.

His last post ended too sarcastically. Amending with a follow-up, the following represents that.

_I'm actually quite serious. My friend is just my friend, and that is all I want him to be._


	3. Second Temptation

_Disclaimer! These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are based in BBC's Sherlock television series as aired on PBS Masterpiece._

A/N: Thank you all for your support! I'm sorry I haven't updated, I've just been a little busy. Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait. Reviews and criticism are welcomed and wanted!

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Medical Knife

Yes, it's another nightmare. This one was just as bloody as the last one, just as jarring and real that John gripped his displaced pillow to his side in white-hot-anger. Still asleep, he usually could manage a restless, unfinished sleep cycle, even in his depressed state—if, that is, he didn't also dream about steel and blood, blood not of comrades, not from the force of another's gun, but from one's own hand, his own hand, counter intuitively in the search for satisfaction, relaxation, calmness, and _control_. And it was this nightmare, with Sherlock's unassuming, accidental discovery of his problem that had John start with an instantaneous muscle spasm, resulting in his bolting not only straight up, but from his bed, and a constrained yelp that was cut off when the muscle-spasm held on too tightly. He sweated more than usual, too, and newly-forming symptoms of a head-ache and paralysis of his fingers and toes presented themselves instantly and painfully.

Sherlock probably heard him, if the constant silence of their flat was indicative of one of his more thoughtful moods. Unless Sherlock was out. He probably was. His case was an interesting one, after all—John didn't understand why he didn't opt for a distraction and took up Sherlock on his offer to join him. Why hadn't he? Because he was too bloody overwhelmed. There were exactly 36 hours left before his holiday ended, and it felt more like a painful sentence rather than a lazy fortnight.

Oh, yes, he also wanted to slice up every inch of his leg. And his forearms. It took all his day and a wall-supplied power source for his lap-top to keep him from doing something a bit not good.

He hadn't left the flat, either, which he was starting to regret—no matter the company, it would be better than brooding alone.

Not _completely _alone. Sherlock was there every so often. He was down stairs as John laid there, in fact. If he was awake, that was yet to be ascertained – though he probably wouldn't care to do so. No, not totally alone. Sherlock, and his quickly growing blog of followers were there, in certain capacities. Two more days, equaling approximately three days, earned him seventy new followers. It was sad to see how many were so royally messed up, and how they pounced on his blog like a self-loathing tiger who would rather rid their self of their stripes than accept them for being apart of _them_. A lot of sad teenagers messaged him. War vets did, as well, and girls with suicide problems; boys with disorders of every kind. He would remember, on the morning of his first day back at his _real _job, that his job was posh and easy, dealing with such a small spectrum of problems that he felt almost blessed to be working as a company stay-in doctor.

Still, it might as well be alone. John got up and quickly changed his sheets and blanket with clean, sweat-cleansed linens. That wasn't enough. He took a quick shower, trying his best to ignore his old scars, ignoring what the time is because it would do him little good, and he could sleep in no matter the outcome. Yes, despite the odd moods he sometimes finds himself in, it was the good life.

Then why was he suddenly so screwed up?

He returned to his bed with that question in his head, upset that he had to ask it but looking on the bright side: he's still clean, not a single red, splitting cut on his skin to be seen. That was something, and that something was enough to calm him into a dreamless (fortunately) sleep. He woke up relatively early (he assumed) at a few before 10. Today was the day. The dreaded day. Sunday, the doomsday of the working-class, the apocalypse for those unprepared to fight the impending zombies, the poison cherry on top of the weekend sundae.

"Tomorrow, bloody Monday." He didn't intend to mumble, nor did he intend to speak at all. His tea and biscuit were nice. The butter knife was a bit suggestive for his liking, but at least it was blunt—he couldn't, no matter how he tried, use it effectively for cutting. Well, he guessed he _could_… He'd prefer an actual blade. He probably couldn't, in actuality, use a butter knife, nor would he try, but it wasn't the word _butter_ that set him off. He caught himself and tossed his biscuit down to the red china in disgust. He just had his tea, too un-hungry to hazard anything more.

Sherlock was done with his caseload, finishing up four minor cases and one major in under three days. The resulting Sherlock was a tired, more-than-usual grouch whose greatest enemy in life was sleep. If John were in any better mood, he would have found his friend's futile struggle with sleep hilarious. But today is Sunday. And that damn blade across the counter was clearly there just for his sole torture. Or, depending on what John would do in a split-second decision, the blade was there, waiting, just like it always did, to help manage all the unusual and sudden emotions that were cropping up at the thought of returning to society.

He chose wrong, as he would later berate himself for. He reached out for the blade and was about to take it by its immaculate metal handle when Sherlock strode in and snatched it up. He'd been acting as hyperactive as possible to keep from falling asleep. However, surrounding his slender, attractive stare, above sharp and symmetrical cheek bones – rather handsome cheekbones, even Doctor John Watson had to admit; everyone had to admit it—was the graduating colors of night, each color-tone representing a night spent without a minute's rest. He had great will-power.

"John, I do not advise touching this."

John retreated, his hand expertly pulling back with the speed of a snake. He prayed to an idol he didn't believe in that Sherlock didn't see the different shades of shame, embarrassment, and guilt tint his skin, his eyes, his now-dry lips. What reason could there be to keep a knife from him other than for knowing that he had a problem?

Don't stutter, John warned himself, simultaneously forcing himself to respond quickly. "Why not? I… It's too sharp to be lying about."

That actually came out quite normal. Where there's the proper motivation, any feat could be accomplished. Even the timid Dr. Watson could feign disinterest if it meant protecting his greatest secret.

Sherlock was definitely ready to sleep. He didn't speak immediately. "This is the blade of my most recently busted criminal! This nearly took five lives. He was a horrible stabber. Seriously. He missed the proper organs every time and never took the time to make sure they were finished off. He even left them with their phones—several called the hospital _themselves_!"

John laughed some. So long as he could keep him talking about cases until he passed out, he was free. For the moment. He realized he lived in fear of every potentially exposing-encounter.

He felt way too vulnerable. Especially when he thought about cutting. Especially when he thought about cutting and blades and making his own skin bleed, with Sherlock in the same room.

_Shut up, _he said to himself. Out loud, however, he managed quite aptly. "Oh. Ew. Okay. Take it off the counter, will you?"

And he was thinking about cutting himself with a blade stained in another's blood?

Yes. He has a problem. _I have a problem_, were the exact words he thought to himself.

"It was actually easy to trace. The attempts weren't related in any way _except _that they all had the same disease. This made the connection. This also linked the killer to the known attempt-killing of a man with hepatitis B. He was identified by the suspects after being shown a picture of the known assailant."

John felt sick. Sherlock saved him, and didn't even know it. He owes him. What is he thinking, he will always owe him. That wasn't such a bad thought.

Hepatitis, however, was a bad thought. Terrifying, even, and enough to make John pale. Sherlock raised an eyebrow to him, before turning to do the strangest thing. He grabbed a metal bowl of sufficient size and started collecting metal things, such as knives, scalpels, meat-checkers, and box-cutters. "John, I want your help. Need it, or demand it, it's your choice. Now, I want you to go to the restroom and other rooms and get all the metal you can, then return to me. Blades are most preferable. I will take them and melt them down into individual components and test their relative purity. Hurry!" He looked to John, whose face would probably be screwed up for days from the confused, fearing expression that was on his face.

Sherlock was either high—no chance, gladly, he recognized—too tired, or knew about his _thing_. He was most likely tired – look at those eyes, not sharp, not anything but a glazed over sphere of vivid, speckled blue-green algae. John would rather Sherlock be pass-out level tired than consider the vague possibility that he knew. What possibility? He'd done nothing. Said nothing. To no one. End of story, this tall, lanky man was just insane from sleep deprivation.

"Um, no. I won't do that. No, no, don't look at me like that. Think about this for a moment, then, if you're _really sure_, I'll help you. Got it?" Sherlock nodded, exasperated but reluctantly compliant. John continued. "You're tired and not thinking clearly. You've just got done with a whole lot of thinking – bravo, by the way, you solved five cases – but now, you're sleep deprived, and you should really consider taking a few hours to nap so you don't take out all of our cutlery in one experiment. Does that seem reasonable to you?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I know how the body works. Not a doctor, but still. And I will sleep. After these—"

John went over to Sherlock's side and took the colander from his hands, placing one of his own up to his tall shoulder in a show of understanding. Sometimes he had to be treated simply for John to make any progress. Up close, his tire was magnified and accentuated. John felt legitimate concern for him and tried to tug him in the direction of his bedroom. "Just take a nap."

Sherlock had nothing better to say other than a loud, infuriated sigh. He took the crime-knife from the designated counter space for such dirty objects, tossing the diseased blade into the pile of house tools. John's skills in reading Sherlock's rare displays of emotion had not improved, so he settled on superiority – concern? – being the prime, though exhausted, feature on his angled face. "I will nap in just a moment. These blades, though, are still mine to use later, when I'm awake. I expect them to be collected for me, as we don't use them any way. You certainly don't need to touch them."

"Oh, god," John said, realizing just what Sherlock implied. What he actually said. What he said while holding John's eyes hostage in acknowledgement. John didn't have use of his vocal-chords, or his limbs, or his now furiously-beating heart. Even worse was the way Sherlock, in his strangely aware yet painfully tired deductive style, _observed_ every crack of character and composure as it chipped off of John like half-melted clay. Underneath, the moldable core was very visible, very _touchable_, very exposed. Sherlock liked seeing that part, that rare and fleeting part of the expected Soldier, the expected Doctor – he smiled, a smile John saw as several things, and that took a moment to process. It was there to show that he couldn't be out-smarted, could not overlook something, that he had won. Also present, just as strong, was the lack of judgment, in the form of a confirming smile to put him at ease. John either couldn't quite see this half of that particular coin, or was in too much denial to be able to process it.

John's hand slipped from Sherlock and he threw the knives into the sink, looking down from the tall man to… he didn't know what. But that's where he kept his eyes for a few seconds, while Sherlock watched and waited patiently, despite wanting to collapse like a slinky.

"I don't even want to know how you know." He did. He just didn't want to ask.

Sherlock smiled, but only because John wasn't looking, and John was both mortified at his friend finding his secret and pleasantly surprised at his inability to want to touch a blade for any other purpose than for cutting bread.

"Well," Sherlock started. He'd become a little comfortable, and paid by giving up a part of his will to override his instinct to sleep. "I will tell you later. I actually am incredibly tired."

John felt relieved, though partially paralyzed, that he would soon be alone. "I'm sorry," he said, moving to the stairs while not turning to face the truth, to face Sherlock. He still had hope that it was a horrible, realistic nightmare—it wasn't the first time, after all, that he'd had similar dreams.

"Just… get some sleep and I suppose we'll talk."

"Yes we will," Sherlock said simply, monotone, as he ascended the stairs.

John didn't even want to post something, not even hurt himself. What did he want to do, if he wanted to do something, but not want to do one of the two things that he often turned to?

He didn't know. He just waited in fear in the living room for Sherlock to reawaken. He better prepare himself while he had the chance.


	4. Exposing Wires

_Disclaimer! This is a work of fanfiction written for Sherlock. This chapter contains more detailed imagery of self-harm, which I reccomend you avoid should you think it could be upsetting._

_A/N: So, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. Mostly, it's about John's reaction. Is it too much? Too out of character? _

_Please review! And don't be shy if I have a typo or grammatical error, I'm more than glad to have those brought to my attention._

_Enjoy!_

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Medical Knife

Sherlock walked down the stairs, purposefully, John assumed, loud for his sake, so that John could be aware and not startled by his presence. He'd slept five hours. Surely, it wasn't enough—nevertheless he looked perfectly well and was even dressed properly. John was surprised by momentary curiosity as to find out where the hell the dark shadows that previously ringed his eyes went. But as soon as John felt his gaze settle, he shook all notions of curiosity off and handed the reigns over to anxiety.

Even Sherlock could read this. "John, do you have to worry all the time?"

"This is a special circumstance."

"Hmm," Sherlock rolled on his heels. "It is."

"God, you—just say something, please. I don't know what the hell you want or what I should even say, so _you_ should at least do something."

At this, John had the strength to keep his eyes in his general direction, Sherlock smiled. A genuine, partial, tame smile. Feeling incredible to be able to witness it, John regained some confidence.

"Roll up your sleeves," Sherlock demanded, but kindly. John could resist, but Sherlock would not back down. John assumed that he should expect as much. It panicked him, regardless, though it shouldn't have, as he had no new marks on his forearms, and the ones he'd had from his more youthful years were so old that they were almost completely unnoticeable. Still…

"Move over to the sofa," Sherlock further instructed, when it was obvious that John was going to resist. He didn't have that much resistance in him, though, and complied, sitting on the left and, not sure what to do, taking a pillow to rest on his knees. Probably a subconscious defense of his legs, the skin that still bore scar tissue and still had stories to tell.

John started to roll his own sleeve up when Sherlock moved his hand to make room for his own. John's jumper was old and loose, the same one with frayed ends. "Watch it," John warned, hoping to slow him down as he started to roll the hems up.

"They're completely fine," he said, already aware of the fabric's delicate state.

John tapped his foot, trying to direct all nervous energy to his feet so that he could dispel it into the floor, thus minimize his shaking. It didn't work. And Sherlock wouldn't have missed it, regardless.

Sherlock got done with both sides somewhat quickly, being careful for John's sake, and gave him an apologetic look. "Take off your jumper," he said, noticing that he'd rolled it up to its maximum length, and that just wasn't good enough.

John said nothing and did as he was told. His undershirt was a short-sleeved, white tee, which could easily be lifted and arranged for observational purposes. Sherlock's long and bare fingers took up John's right wrist, moving his arm to cross across Sherlock's lap as he examined the pale and virtually scar-lacking arm. John kept his breathing down, even with the tinge of the long fingers gliding across his excited nerves. John liked the wispy feeling, the light, _barely_-touch-feeling that Sherlock was capable. He looked away when the sensations became too much—the only involuntary movement he made as Sherlock examined his arms.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled, tilting John's forearm at the elbow, holding it higher to search for new scars. Accidentally, when, having not found any new injuries, he caught the reflection of a hardly-there mark, he became engrossed in searching for the old scars as well. Both arms yielded the same results: scars too far gone to see without strenuous efforts, and nothing made recently. John _almost _hoped that he would leave it at that—why would he check anywhere else? He would see that he didn't do anything, and leave it at that. Of course, he _didn't_ do anything, but thinking, imagining, Sherlock, eyes steeled and inquisitive in the mind set of a detective, _seeing_ what he once self-inflicted… The scars were really bad, by an observer's point of reference. They were incredible, a feat to be seen as impossible and regarded in disgust by those who didn't _get it._

"These are stubbornly difficult to identify," Sherlock, keen to details, admitted. "I would say these were left—"

"I was nineteen. You know, the last time…" John, knowing it was insane and bloody desperate to lie, tried lying anyway.

"Sure. If you say so," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly letting go of John's unsupported arms, which fell gracelessly. "The last time you touched your arm, possibly. I suppose someone could harm themselves in other areas. It evades me as to how this actually helps… but, no matter." He cheered up, in a way seemingly indicative, to John, that he was satisfied. John was about ready to jump up in celebration of avoiding the worst of what he feared, nearly on the verge of thanking whatever religious idol he would first think of. A bit premature.

Sherlock spread one arm in front of John, and John bumped his chest against on him on his way to stand. By accident, and with skin-numbing realization, John made the mistake of underestimating him.

Sherlock proceeded to take the pillow from John. "You didn't honestly think I wouldn't check your legs? If it makes it any better, you can show me your ankles first. One way or another, I will be examining the rest of you. I suspect your upper thigh's are ravaged, as this is a habit you've had for years, and I seem to be the only one to have noticed it—I'm actually quite disappointed I didn't realize quicker. However, you will still show me."

John felt a little testy, a little restless, a little terrified—no, he would fight as much as he could. A look designed only for a soldier flashed in his eyes, and Sherlock caught this in time to prevent John from leaving. It wasn't a huge ordeal. Sherlock ended up with his forearm tucked under John's chin, and John trying to remain as calm as possible.

Big mistake. John never felt more humiliated.

"I don't understand why I need to show you," he started, just as Sherlock released him from his choke-hold.

"Call it a courtesy. Your friend discovers your habits, you at least indulge him and prove that nothing had been done about it. Either that or, secondly, that you have done something, and you don't want it seen and your habits forcibly halted."

"How did you…?"

Sherlock half smiled. But he seemed sad as well. Upset, something along those lines—Sherlock didn't experience _sadness_, per say. "I follow your blog. I should say that I follow your secret blog, as that is the one that you neglected to mention having, the uncensored version of your life."

John gave up. No, there was no possible way of keeping secrets with Sherlock Holmes in his immediate and constant vicinity. He had nothing to say, either, resigned to a distant look as he crossed one convenient leg over his knee. Taking off his sock, he presented clean, though not nearly as unmarked skin as his arms. He didn't try to look at Sherlock's reaction.

"John…"

"I'm a doctor. I know what needs medical attention and what doesn't, so believe me when I say I'm fine. I haven't done anything in a long time. But if you don't want to see… _worse_, far worse, scars, then please…" He turned his puppy-dog resembling eyes to Sherlock. He hated himself, truly, now that he knew. Sherlock knew and would always know. He would look at him and think of a pathetic idiot who has a blade fetish.

John Watson doesn't cry. "Please…"

"… I don't know."

"I haven't done anything. I swear." Okay, he wasn't crying. This was worse than crying, because it was a pain that could be seen in the eyes, but not expressed.

Sherlock trusts John—anyone would pick up on that, just by being in a room with them for a few minutes. Reluctantly nodding, turning his head downward in contemplation, he finally decided to not get his way. After all, John was feeling dreadfully close to tears… "Fine. I won't look at your leg, if it means that much. But, should a time arise in the future where I find myself suspicious of your behavior, you _will_ show me. Everything. Do you understand?"

Oh, the sentiment of a certain self proclaimed sociopath. It was a beautiful sight to behold, even in the state of near-bawling. John was never more relieved, and managed a smile. "Thank you."

Sherlock huffed a little. "Then, would you at least explain a few things to me? I deserve as much."

This man was no machine. "I… oh, hell, fine… I suppose you do… just, you know, look to the telly or something, just don't _observe_ me." Emphasis placed, he hoped Sherlock caught on to his reasons. Sherlock appeared understanding, and turned to look at the fast-food neon-sign quality glare from the impeccably ridiculous television programming.

"Is there, uh, anything you want to ask?" Awkward John, fidgeting and rubbing up against his friends hands, legs. His shirt was still not covering him, and his foot leaned uncomfortably over the legs of his friend. Did he have to sit so close? Though it was John who moved closer to his friend, it remained plain in his mind that Sherlock was encroaching upon his personal space because he _cared_. At least that. He could live with shame, so long as their relationship remained, however changed, intact.

"Why would you start a blog? By the way, very original, I would never have rhymed _Sean_ with _John_. Did you want to keep it strictly from me?"

The room was far too bright, cramped, and John felt cornered, exposed, visible. "I… well… I don't know."

"I deserve it."

"Right. You're a great child. A man-child. A genius, man-child with the persistence of a bloodhound."

"Guilty on all claims, Doctor. Stop dodging."

John wanted to stand, bolt away. He remained in his minimal clothing on the seat, however, knowing the only way to get away was to get through it. "Not just you… I wanted it private from everyone in my life, from the world. I don't know if you know this, but I'm incredibly ashamed about, eh, my _issue_. Problem. Thing. Whatever. But that's not something I wanted to share."

"Unless under a false name?"

"I just wanted to get it out… it's really hard to live with a secret, and if I hadn't found an outlet… It was preferable to actually cutting—" _God, _he said the word. _Cutting_. Pain contorted his face as he continued. "Much more acceptable. And, you know, it's nice to help people."

"I see…"

"And… how much have you read?"

"Everything, from your first post onward. And your drafts."

John groaned, moving away from any contact he shared with Sherlock, tremors shaking his body horribly. A sharp desire cut through his thoughts, stronger now than ever, and he didn't even care. He'd read _everything_? Drafts, even? How the bloody hell did he manage that one? Far worse things were hidden in the unposted, dusty draft folder of his blog— things describing the actual act itself, the pleasure, the intensified shame, the first time he ever took a sharp edge to his skin…. And then, the things he _did _post. The things he posted that he absolutely didn't want Sherlock to ever find out? Bloody hell, he proclaimed his love for his savior in those posts! He revealed things that annoyed him, bluntly without ever considering that it might come round to bite him in the arse. He'd said a lot of things. He would never live them down. And how exactly did Sherlock find out? For god's sake, he was certain he could deduce his thoughts from just his expression! Now, his fingers and toes were numb, and a strange half-paralysis came over him, making him stiff like an un-oiled knight's suit of armor—though not nearly as strong as the casted metal plates. No, not nearly as strong as to keep his most sensitive self hidden, not to let his emotions break the exterior and show in his now _ready-to-overfill_ eyes. John pulled his hand through his messy hair, over his face, covering his mouth to stifle the small sounds he made, mostly out of frustration. Why couldn't Sherlock have left him alone?

Sherlock neither expected this or knew what to do under such circumstance. Emotion didn't settle well for him, now more than ever when it was evident that he needed to express _something _to his hurting friend. What set it off? Probably, due to his precautions to keep his blog, and _issue, _a secret, he was probably embarrassed and angry and scared that he found his blog. He did put up some _personal _things, very intimate and uncensored things. But why wouldn't he have told Sherlock? Surely he wasn't that poor of a shoulder to lean on that he had to find a crutch to support his weakening emotional state? Sherlock stared in incomprehension to John as he, unsuccessfully, tried to retake his control. Control, Sherlock knew, was one thing he did understand. Cutting, no, he didn't understand, but the comfort found in control and order did make sense. Beside that, the scars were alarming, at least. It takes a lot to unnerve Sherlock. He was almost jolly when he was able to pass on seeing John's legs. If what the doctor said was true, then he could trust him, and wouldn't have to see the assumed horrific scars lining his upper thighs…

"Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry…"

Intriguing. "I don't understand."

John guiltily flashed his eyes over. "I… for the things you read. And for being the way… I… am…"

"…Uh, you don't need to be."

"It's just so… hard… and the really puzzling thing is… I… don't know why. I have no reason to be upset… I'm fucking happy. Except when I'm not. And it's terrifying. I could hurt my self so easily… and not care… and I know better and don't want to… but at the same time…" John stifled another choking breath, painfully willing his tears into submission, but failing at the image of a blade coming to mind, an image that nearly extinguished his will. He might as well tell. Nothing was a secret any more. "Uh… Sherlock…"

Returning to Sherlock briefly, we glean a quick glance into his thoughts as he remained quiet, stunned and unable to process the necessary information to form a reasonable, logical course of action. He was somewhere in his mind when John turned to him. He noticed the slight puff surrounding his moist eyes, and the distress evident in their turmoil-filled uncertainty. "Yes, John?" He congratulated himself on sounding caring, and not stuck up.

John attempts to ready himself. There's no preparation for the perpetually self-shamed. "I… I'm wanting to…" Can he say it? "I want to…" This is pathetic. Selfish. Gross. "I want to hurt my self…" No way to turn back now. He ducked his eyes behind his hands. "Hell, I want to really badly."

What he didn't expect was a reaction. In a muddled state of emotions, a mind not quite able to focus on anything, he still worked out that Sherlock wouldn't really be able to help him. The most Sherlock could do was sit and listen to him and not say anything, because anything he might say would certainly be derailing for his sanity. So, when Sherlock reached out with a procured handkerchief—procured from where? How?— he gently nudged John's hands away. John didn't resist, out of shock, out of complete exhaustion, and jumped, slightly, from utter astonishment as Sherlock patted away the dampness from his eyelashes. Eyes locked, and they stayed locked.

The gesture meant a great deal to John. Contact and sentiment and humanity didn't come naturally or easily to the detective, so when he… One tear that fell freely down his cheek was a happy one (albeit unintended and completely treacherous). His smile confirmed that Sherlock did the right thing, and Sherlock took it as a sign to wipe away errant tears from the other eye.

"Thank you." Only Sherlock had the ears capable of hearing a thank-you of such a low frequency. He nodded and forced an awkward smile.

"Just… don't harm yourself."

John shook his head. "I won't."

"You have to promise."

"I promise, Sherlock, I will not harm myself."

"Good," he patted, thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork. "And what will you do should you ever want to do so?"

"I'll blog… and…"

"Just say it." His eye-roll was greatly welcomed by John.

"And, if I could, I might talk to you about it."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, good."

"I didn't think you would take it this way."

"What way is 'this way'? And how did you think I would react?"

John grabbed his jumper urgently, wanting nothing more than to correct his partial-naked status. "I don't know," he said through the fabric of his shirt as he pulled it over his head. "Maybe you would be mad. Or not want to talk to me. Or not care."

"I am mad, I will certainly talk to you, and I do care." Sherlock couldn't help but accidentally raise an eyebrow in acknowledging John's pleased reaction.

John's neck felt warm. Nerves. Damn them, giving away his every emotion. But nothing could bring down a high from hearing what he heard. "Oh. Right."

"I have only one friend. I believe you recall my saying this, and I would be remiss to not reiterate every so often, which I've probably not done very well as of late."

John cleared his throat. Sherlock cleared his throat in response to John clearing his throat because it just felt right, which then led John to palm his neck nervously because he knew he had to say something. Something? What something? Nothing, actually, because he realized that he'd said everything already. Inadvertently and indirectly he told Sherlock what he thought of him, and Sherlock made the attempt to do so back, however stiff and odd sounding it was. That was enough, and John's confessions were enough, so there was no more need to acknowledge any thing because it was already acknowledged.

The door shut downstairs, and they knew Mrs. Hudson was awake and already out. They'd heard a lot less from her lately, which had, normally, John a bit concerned. He'd forgot that in his own musings and self-denying ways, but it returned to him when he remembered that he didn't live alone with Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, had no concern whatsoever for Mrs. Hudson because he knew she was doing perfectly well. She was giving them space because he asked her to, which cleared up her schedule, which let her find the time to do things for herself. She'd met someone, but that wasn't going to work out, but she wouldn't mind. She was visiting the cinema more often, meeting with friends. She called up to say goodbye to Sherlock and John, who both looked in the direction of the stairs with a welcome air, just glad to be able to break the seriousness of their conversation and get out as clean as possible. Sherlock stood and looked down to John, now clothed, sitting awkwardly and hugging his elbows.

"You need to consume food."

John was feeling _really_ uneasy. He probably couldn't handle food. "Uh, I think I'll pass."

"By my count, your entire holiday consisting of almost two-weeks, has dedicated time for exactly six half-dinners and no breakfast, lunch, or snacks. You have lost five pounds, and are unprepared to return to work tomorrow. You're probably nervous and can't stomach the thought of food, but you must attempt something. I'm actually hungry—don't look surprised, of course I eat. But now I can, because I'm currently not occupied with a case. Come with me."

John was just happy to be over with the whole thing. As bad as it was – the humiliation and shame!— it could have gone more than one type of worse. He could unclench and force something down his throat if it meant that that was done. "Fine. Fine, alright?"

A click in both their heads, ringing in their ears, signaled the resuming of their normal routine, a gear that had dislodged itself somehow that suddenly fell back into place. John stood and went for his coat, a sort of ease about him as he readied himself to reestablish his connection with the outside world. God. What got into him? Over the course of nearly two weeks, he and Sherlock switched momentary and frighteningly opposite roles. Whatever it was, it was passing. He felt it. Who knew that all he needed was to confess his secret to his most trusted confidant in order to not desire said secret?

Sherlock waited by the door, grinning in the way he did, making John's then-confident strides down the stairs halted and self-doubting. "What?"

"Oh, nothing."

Nothing isn't nothing. Not in John's mindset. Nothing was a possibility that something wasn't right. "Care to tell the idiot anyway?"

"You're not an idiot."

"I'll ignore the contradictory mixed signals for now. Tell me," he flashed his most loyal, stern expression. Sherlock knew it well. He enjoyed seeing John this way.

"When I say nothing, I mean it. I'm just noting the difference in you."

"Oh?"

"Adamant refusal to venture out, reclusiveness, inability to eat, as of late, these are easily applied terms that I could use to describe your behavior. The change I mention is one of attitude. I think it's preferable."

John reached past Sherlock to handle the door knob, stalling for a moment to look up to brown-curl draped eyes. "Thank you."


	5. Red

Red is a beautiful color. Dark red is hypnotic and somehow calming, like that of blood. It pulses under the skin and rushes as adrenaline surges. It's the color of life and the hue of a setting sun as it leaves its last mark on the day sky. It is the heat in one's cheeks as they flush with some strong emotion and the ink coloring a love-letter. Red burns like the end of a candle, it mixes with other colors without submitting under pressure, it is strong and demanding.

John forgot just how much he missed the color red.

The events leading up to his cutting-spree are just a bit obscure, and start, as they usually do, in the most casual observation. Blood coursing down his leg and arm, he thought back three days prior, to one of the best days of his life.


	6. Casual Observation

_Disclaimer! No profit made from this fan-made story._

_What should I do next? I feel like I'm getting nowhere._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Medical Knife

"Since when, John, do you opt out of a date to sit alone in cafés? I find this highly suspicious."

John sat perpendicular to Sherlock, seated in a booth for the comfort of it, drumming his fingers along the counter-top while he pondered that very question. He did give up a date, but in truth, it wasn't that big of a deal—he'd met with her once before, but she was incredibly dull and slow-witted, so naturally he wouldn't feel any drive for her—no matter how willing she was to sleep with him. John Watson was, actually, a stud. But his standards had risen substantially over the course of the year spent with an international legend. So the fact that he found it hard to sustain at least enjoyable entertainment, while partially was his fault for becoming acclimated to, was mostly due to the fact that she was boring. A lot of his dates were boring. This one was no different—actually, no, it was different, for one small, incremental, unassuming detail. And that detail was that Sherlock said that this one was different. If he said so, then it _must_ be different.

_Nope_. Sherlock was Sherlock, and like Sherlock, he always sought intricacy and intrigue and mystery and entertainment, which he was in short supply as of late. He'd only accompanied John to the café for this fact, and nothing more. John accepted the company because he knew he would have to, regardless of actually wanting it.

That still didn't keep him from pretending he was alone. He simply ignored Sherlock, who scoffed, and waited for his latte order to arrive. But he knew he had to wait—the new kid took it, and would be chatting up a girl, which would collide neatly with the fact that they had a new beverage machine and he wouldn't know how to use it.

John picked up a fair amount of things from Sherlock.

"John."

Ignore.

"John."

Was that scent a new coffee mix? He should try it. Smells good.

"Watson."

"What? Can't you see I'm trying to be… I don't know, alone? Yes. That does work, doesn't it? Alone. Why can't you leave me that way?"

It is mentionable that John was feeling more bothered that day than was normal. It was vague, but definitely in response to the surge of people coming down with illness at his work. Sherlock was himself, though slightly more time-consuming of John without any cases. The cases filtering through his inbox were so elementary and easy that he didn't want to tell Lestrade who did it. Even he—even _Anderson_ – could unravel the case. Unfortunately, this bred a new, more potent incarnation of boredom, which infiltrated every aspect of John's life. The night before, Sherlock wandered into the bathroom while John was showering for the purpose of discussing the nature of furniture-polish.

It was also bothersome to not have a good date, either. He didn't want to place the reason why he didn't like any of the seven girls he'd seen. That would lead him to the conclusion that his ability to tolerate mundane conversation lowered considerably. That would make him like Sherlock. That wouldn't do.

His eyes looked down to his hands.

He hardly ever felt the need to cut—it was rounding a month's marker point on the calendar since his last urge, since Sherlock confronted him about it. He never got down to the real reason why he was feeling so bad, but he didn't think on it when it went away. For the most part, it felt like it was never there, just as the war flashback dreams were just faded memories. He'd been sleeping well. Really well.

The trade off for such a good-night's sleep and lack of dangerous urges was the loss of interest. If he were honest, he didn't even care to go on a date. As his will returned, like the flame of a candle, he burnt the necessary fuel around him to sustain that will, that happiness. A happiness of a sort, if that. What he burnt up was a creative pocket, a thoughtful, emotional thing, and replacing it was the steady-burning flame atop a wick of minimalistic drive. He operated as required. He liked doing things of all sorts— watching telly alone, morning walks, planning on a book he might write, even just spending time, in silence, with Sherlock Sherlock was a good thing for John over the course of the month. John felt a little more needed in the detective's life, both professionally and privately. Sherlock even watched the telly a bit more, called him "idiot" less, and, most importantly, he trusted John. Never did he ask to check his skin for marks. John was sure he observed the hell out of him when he was distracted, following the secret-blog that he still kept up with (mostly with advice posts), but if that was the worse it gets, then he would welcome it.

It was with women that he struggled most. In this instance, he just couldn't stand her—Mary, that was her name. Narrated in the somewhat deep, alluring voice of Sherlock Holmes, John's mind went to work on the woman he was supposed to be interested in, picking apart little things that annoyed him, things that weren't attractive, things that made her sound unintelligent or boring.

Why did Sherlock have to find out about his not having a date? And why didn't he say anything now that John gave him the attention he needed? Sherlock stared at him like he was looking through him, without a blink, for more than thirty-seconds. The overpowering chatter, clatter, fuss, and comfortable hum of the café laid over them as they exchanged one long, unsettling stare. Sherlock looked more like a statue in his at-ease gaze, with his popped-black collar, finely folded long-sleeved jacket, and high-set cheeks. John, oppositely, fidgeted too much, and let his eyes break when they couldn't stand the pressure.

Their beverages arrived, and John looked to the kid who brought them. "Thanks."

"I'm bored."

Ah. There it was. Sherlock could no longer tolerate the lack of amusement, and was going to draw it from John.

John wasn't going to bend. "Well, then, find a case. And solve it."

"I'm not clever enough to devise an adequate means of entertainment. Cases are…" Sherlock's expression screwed up to demonstrate the amount of disgust he held for the current criminals out there. "This is a boring month."

"Mnn."

"You're boring me, John."

"Then leave." Yes, please, leave. John is boring, it won't do anyone a lick of good to stay around…

"I was considering something."

"And what would that be?" John's patience was wearing thin—consider a pair of pants, held up to the light to reveal the weak points where they would first tear. Then, imagine the light bulb burning too hot and catching the pants on fire. Now imagine John as the pants and Sherlock as the annoyingly, painfully bright light. John almost laughed at the images at hand, but didn't when Sherlock, he just noticed, was smiling way too widely. "You're doing well," he commented. "A little routine, but otherwise well."

A feeling he'd experienced when serving in the war crept up into his thoughts, flowing through his blood momentarily: a great urge to shoot something became a strong, brief flash in his reacting nervous system. He didn't know what prompted it – maybe it was just a little mental break after being filed down over the course of the month—and it passed. Quickly, but not without another urge coming on, an even worse urge replacing the benign, pretend-threat of violent outburst, undoing all of John's faculties the moment he recognized a familiar friend-enemy (respectively, freinemy).

Sherlock wouldn't know if he didn't say anything, and if he kept up with their banter, and if he would reluctantly follow him wherever he fancied. Anything. Just, god, don't let him know. A brusque smile quickly formed on John's lips, and his eyes became brighter, even in the London downpour. "Fine. What is it we're doing this time?" Sounding a touch jerkish, accomplished. "It's pouring out, and you said yourself that there aren't any worthwhile cases. You look comfortable, you followed me, you probably have something planned, probably a performance of sorts, as you haven't dressed any differently indicating a dramatic change in scenery. I think I mentioned before how I wanted to go to the cinema for that horror-mystery, and the one I wanted, which I'm sure you remember, is already off the main cinema, so that leaves the dollar movies across town. In this rain and considering traffic and movie showings, the showing you're probably interested in is at five-fifteen… "

Both John and Sherlock were surprised. John was _really_ surprised, but Sherlock was partially stunned. Literally. He may have bore two holes through John's face with the look he gave him. John fidgeted, taking a half-scalding drink. He forgot to be angry, and he certainly forgot the need to cut.

To be honest, they were simple observations, but they were more than average deducing where John was concerned. Sherlock blinked once and shook his head. "Very good, John. Yes, I was actually thinking about going to the cinema with you."

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Great."

Sherlock's smile returned, and he took John's drink as John set it down, taking a sip, seemingly unaffected by the heat of the latte. "I find that impressive."

John had a hard time remembering the last time he felt so strongly about pleasing someone. It occurred to him that he never, really, did—though he always did his best to please. Mostly out of want to prevent conflict did he practice such self-restricting favors for others. But this time, it meant something. He smiled – non-jerkishly, mind you – not caring that he lost his drink, would have to travel in the rain, or sit through a horror-mystery movie with a detective who would deduce the killer from the beginning, pick apart character relationships, motives, childhood fears, future-marital problems, and middle life crises. "Uh, right. Thanks. Don't think that's a new thing of mine, because I'm sure it was a fluke—I won't be deducing crime scenes and psychoanalyzing everyone I meet."

"Noted, Mr. Watson, though I'm sure you underestimate."

John scoffed, standing. "I suppose we leave now, since we have to cross town."

Sherlock gave back his drink, unsatisfied. No more words were said, and they hailed a cab quickly, less than half soaked through from the consistent rain. The cab was dark – the cabbie apologized when they got in, saying the light was broken by the drunk he'd driven the night before—and the clouds and rain and obscuring London building's did nothing to help that. Sherlock remained quite, but peacefully so, while John's thought's wandered to darker-still places. At least it was dark, a privacy given to him by some merciful force, knowing he needed the veil to conceal his worry. He wasn't supposed to feel this way, with a begging breath on his un-parted-lips to taste the steel again, to sharpen his senses against a blade he held and controlled. And select words from his conversation caught in the vertices of his thoughts, the edges of his aware-self that recognized the wrongness and the reasoning behind it.

_You're doing well. A little routine, but well. _He felt unsettled when attention was given to his life, when he was forced to introspect… _Well_ was not what he was. Routine wasn't what he desired.

_I'm impressed. I'm sure you underestimate_. He couldn't keep his respect, now, that he showed some attention to detail—this was a standard, that while Sherlock may or may not hold him to, or even have of his physician friend, John would nevertheless hold himself to, always fail to meet, and eventually be disappointed by. His fingers flexed, and he tugged at his jumper, passing it off as being cold, though he knew damn well that it was to distract his mind with a mundane, time-consuming tasks for his idle but eager fingers. Sherlock was deep in thought, or possibly focused on the passing details of the passengers of other cars they settled next to in traffic. Whatever had his attention, John was relieved not to be picked apart. It went well last time—as well as he could hope for, being caught with an unfavorable habit – but he doubted his ability to deal with it a second time. There would be no second time, because he was certain of a few things. One, he would not mention it, in person or through his blog, two, he would ignore the problem because, isn't the best way to deal with a problem? And three, he would, should his plan to ignore fails and he feels like doing something stupid, he would not give in. It was a great plan. Comparably, it was as spectacular a plan as crossing your fingers would be, just as sound, just as infallible. Persistence to the point of idiocy, he would just tough it out.

Pressures never fail to pressure, to persuade, to make themselves, the un-shy bastards they are, the center of attention. Still… John could do it. Right?

He operated as required. He liked doing things of all sorts— watching telly alone, morning walks, planning on a book he might write, even just spending time, in silence, with Sherlock


	7. Slip Up

_Disclaimer!_

_Thank you for sticking with me so far, I appreciate it a lot!_

_Warning: This chapter contains self-harm and is very detailed. Proceed with caution._

_I haven't looked over this chapter as carefully as I'd like, so please forgive any error you might happen upon. Feel free to tell me, should you find something._

_I hope you enjoy, and comments/criticism are welcome!_

_EDIT: Okay, so I rewrote the second half because I realized it 1) didn't flow smoothly and 2) didn't convey what I intended._

* * *

Medical Knife

The blood was calming, flowing freely and messily. John didn't think about his previous promise to himself, to be strong despite every reason not to. There weren't any real reasons – things were, truly, okay in his little, routine life – but that wasn't what flooded his mind at that moment—the channels were already filled, coated in endorphins and a tangible sense of control that was probably all in his mind.

It seemed a shame that the blood started to dry, his blood vessels obviously tapped-out and working to repair themselves. His scalpel was still firm in his hand, ready to be used again as soon as he felt the mood take him. It came quickly and was answered in a quick, rewarding drag across his left forearm. John surprised himself. He avoiding cutting his arms for the fact that they would be difficult to disguise, to make excuses for, and resided his blade to the inner, more sensitive skin of his upper-most thigh. None of his girlfriends noticed, not a single physicalexam ever checked, and he had kept his secret with ease.

But he forgot how fucking good it felt on his arm.

So he pulled a little deeper than intended, carried away in the moment, a mistake he wouldn't understand the consequence to for a few more minutes. He was swimming. Either literally, as the bathtub, over which he was inclined, was filling at an alarming rate, or figuratively, with his head so far in the clouds that it wouldn't have even counted as earth's atmosphere. The blood was calming. It ran in vibrant, heated, a-little-too-free rows down his arm, down his leg. Why wasn't it stopping, though? John, a doctor still, could tell something was wrong, though a little light-headed. His pants were discarded to the side, folded, and contained his phone. John, though a doctor, was too far gone – panicked now that the blood collected beneath him at an alarming rate— to be able to tell if it was his imagination making his situation seem worse than it was, or if he was in danger. The panic could be deluding him into thinking more time had passed and that his wounds weren't congealing—then there would be no need to call _anyone_. There would be no need for Sherlock to know…

Sherlock. That name is what set John off, now that he was aware of _everything._ Oh, god, what had he done? Why was his stolen blade at the flesh of his arm? He'd done so good to keep his secret, he was so careful – and what did he waste it on? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The random desire took him, and he gave in...

"Fuck. Fucking hell. I… what… what have I…?" His arm still bled, and it didn't appear to be slowing. Added to the mix was John's rapid heartbeat, which only made his arm bleed worse. He stood, a little too quickly, splattering the side of the shower-stall with crimson, setting himself off-balance and almost falling onto the toilet. Damn, he was a doctor! He should have been more careful, should have kept to his thigh, should have… not cut.

What an idiot. What a disappointment. Maybe he should let himself die.

"Don't… be dramatic."

If nothing else, he could _force_ himself to calm. At least that. At least he could do _one_ thing right.

The bathroom light was bright, illuminating every spot of red on the tile, tub, sink. Sitting on the toilet's closed lid and practicing breathing properly, he, when he was of a mind to do so, could see the mess he made. The little carpeted rug beneath the ceramic sink was dripped on with a disgusting amount of red, still wet and waiting to dry. The trail of large, bright red blots of blood slicked the floor, leading a clear path from the bath-tub – where a truly gross amount of life had been spilt – to his current seat. The walls surrounding it were left dripping with the result of his panicked trek.

But his arm had stopped bleeding. The wound was his worse yet, and his skin flaked with dried splatter, but, when he looked closely, through the eyes of a medic, he saw that it wasn't fatal. The blood just looked bad. Really bad. But after a solid ten minutes of making sure he didn't fracture the blood-seal that formed, he started cleaning the bathroom. He cleaned the floors first, which were easy, as they were tile, and disposed of the soiled rug. Sherlock wasn't home. He hadn't been home in over 6 hours, a fact he was sure of—he checked the closets before he took out his blade of choice. It was after a few minutes of making sure there weren't stray blood drops left on the floor that he ran water in the tub. He was a mess, too, and decided rather quickly that he should shower. Rubbing off the crusty trails from his body, he also cleaned the walls, the tub, the faucet…

How easily will Sherlock discover his error in judgment? How will he take it?

He would be disgusted. And he was certain that, when—not if, because there would be no way to pretend that nothing happened, that there was no guilt— _when _he finds out, he would hate John. He would lose respect. He would be mad. He would be disgusted and not want anything to do with him. He asked him not to do it, he asked him to blog, to talk, to not _fucking do it_. And he went behind his back.

The shower ran cold, but he didn't notice at first, as he was too caught in the web of his own irrational thoughts. Although he probably should have punished himself, staying in the freezing water, exposing his wounds to fresh, less-pleasant forms of harm, he got out anyway. Dressing in a new set of clothes, checking the bathroom to make sure one-hundred-percent that it looked as it always did, he went first to his room, and sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at his feet, which were open to the air and partially wrinkled from the water. His room was a clean little place, comfortable and made his through the placement of a few personal though nondescript items. It was too comforting. He didn't want to be comforted, not after knowing that he fucked up. His lips made a hard line against his conflicted features, against his overshadowed eyes and pressed eyebrows. His cell sat beside him, just a few inches from his hand, awaiting his choice of action. God… what a fool. He didn't cover his arms as he waited, not like he felt he should have. Just a tee shirt and long shorts covered his body, and he wasn't sure whether or not to leave it that way. His cell still waited. Try and hide it, or admit it and get it done with? Delay or immediate action?

No time to decide. He heard the front door shut. Sherlock had a way of silently opening doors, but letting them shut themselves. God knows where Mrs. Hudson was, he'd hardly kept tabs on his own life. But _oh, god, he's right down there_. He tried a last-ditch effort to make himself detached, to leave his mind and body, to become emotionless and stoic.

That was a stupid idea.

He swallowed, feeling the words he didn't want to say fall down the back of his throat, but rise again. He was going to have to face it, and his body knew it—it practically forced John, against his will, to stand, to walk, to open the door (quietly, though), and walk down the stairs…

What was he supposed to do? He still moved at his body's bidding, but he was still scared to shit and didn't know what he was suppose to say or do or how to react…

Sherlock could be heard in the kitchen, moving things around, turning on the stove top, clanking glass and porcelain and metal without trying to be quite or mysterious, as he often did outside of the flat. Sherlock had no idea that John broke his trust.

When did he grab his phone? A mercy.

He typed a message, hesitating to send it, knowing that what was typed would ruin him.

I'm really sorry. I really didn't mean to. I think you understand. Come upstairs. -JW

It was going to happen eventually. He shut his eyes hard against his blaring screen and pressed _send._

Sherlock's phone beeped gently. John knew Sherlock's habits, his response time, and a horrible pain filled his mind and body when he though of him answering immediately. John rushed back to his room, aware of the feet ascending the stairs and a strong, uninterrupted pace. The steadiness by which Sherlock conduced himself was terrifying. In cinema, the serial killers who were slow and methodical and calm were always the most frightening. A knock came to the door, and he looked up from his hands (which he buried his face in), wondering what would happen in the next few seconds.

His breathing wasn't going to steady, so he didn't even try. "Co… come in…"

The handle twisted, the hinges swung effortlessly, and Sherlock entered, like he would any other door, without hesitance, but with intent. He wore the trench coat he was most often seen in, with his hair messy but not unattractive, and his eyes blue and aware of every pressing and uninteresting detail to be seen. Although his expression betrayed nothing of his inner-workings, it was softer. A bit. There was anger there, too—more visible, with the passing seconds, as Sherlock looked John over, like his specimen. John kept his nose turned to the edge of his bed beside his legs, painfully aware of his nearly completely exposed body.

"John."

Bloody hell. That tone. That fucking tone. John's body was at a loss of response for the inspiring terror that _that_ tone invaded him with. John shook his head, the best way he could communicate_._

"John, keep your eyes on me."

Once a soldier, always a soldier? He listened to the demand and raised his head. "…" He thought better of saying anything and decided to shut up. He deserved the emotionless stare Sherlock regarded him with.

"Well?"

Well? "I'm…"

"Don't even think about saying _I'm sorry._"

"Then… I don't know what I should do." Great job, you're voice isn't completely pathetic and shaken.

"It's…" Sherlock wasn't quite sure where to go from there. Anger started to make itself scarce. "…It's fine." Sherlock stepped forward, keeping his stare locked with John, who was, currently, in complete panic and shock. John didn't understand what was happening as Sherlock took seat beside him, or when he pulled out his injured arm and twisted it to expose, completely, the long vertical gash travelling side-to-side just below his elbow-crook.

"Sherlock…? No… it's not fine… please, stop…"

"I told you, the next time I would examine you. Thoroughly."

"It's not that… it's… you don't have to act so understanding."

"You would rather I yell at you? You would rather I get pissed and… then what?"

His hand was held high. His fingers wobbled. His eyes were focused on the fibers of the wool below him, the red and yellow and white weaves of his bedding. "I don't want it to hurt you. I mean, you have no reason to care about such things, but I did break a promise, and I know you don't like things that don't make sense… illogical, stupid, idiotic, things…"

Sherlock sighed heavily, setting down John's arm on his lap, taking hold of his wrist. Of all places. "I won't pretend to understand this issue. I won't pretend to not be… upset. But I'm not angry. Judging from the diameter of your irises and the rate of your pulse, I'm willing to say that you thought the worse of me finding out. Possibly, I would be so mad that I would hate you? Yes, I can tell," Sherlock felt John's pulse surge under his skin as it's pace tripled at the truths Sherlock spoke. "And you thought I would leave—well, more like I would kick you out. And that I would lose interest because it doesn't make sense to me."

Nail on the head, every time. John refused to talk. That's not quite true, as he was, at present, incapable of forming linguistic sounds. But even if he could, it's doubtful he would dare try.

"You see, John," Sherlock moved from his seated position beside John, to kneel before him as he pushed his knees to either side. "I'm not angry _because _you didn't lie to me." His hands were touching all the wrong places, all the painful and pleasure ridden places where the old scars met the new, reddened slashes. It was painful, it was raw, and it told stories no sane man would ever want to own up to. "I can see that these are the first injuries in a long while." Sherlock's hands were fitted to either thigh, pushing up the white-green shorts, exposing more skin and more stories. "These were recently inflicted. You called me up quickly. I can see the time wasted on hesitation, but regardless, you chose to be honest. I would have easily seen what you hid, if you chose to do so." He set his thumb at the base of the deepest, longest wounds, rising up the skin and barely touching it, testing the tenderness for no apparent reason. John's observational skill eluded him, pushed out by the horrible yet crazy-wonderful sensations brought to his skin by the fingers of Sherlock. Sherlock touched his scars, old and new, making sure John knew what he meant by doing so. Looking up for the first time, he whispered deeply and honestly. "I told you before. You are my only friend. You are the only person to mean _so_ much to me. You fell back into a habit, but… that's okay."

"…Sherlock…"

"Now, do you want to talk? These wounds are properly cleaned, obviously not needing stitches, so we can leave them." He stood, adjusting the lapel of his coat, flatting creases. "I'm regret to have to do this, but you understand that from now on, for a while, I will have to check, to make sure you're not scratching or doing anything to keep the wounds unhealed."

John managed a smile. Sherlock, a machine, emotionless? As if. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I understand."

"Good."

"Can I get dressed?"

"Can you first give me your scalpel?"

John pointed in the general direction of the restroom, then ran his fingers through the hair on the back of his head, feeling less anxious, but still nervous. "I… left it in the restroom. I don't have any other blade."

Sherlock looked down, past his nose, judging his sincerity. He settled on believing him, and set out to take the blade. "Dress."

John nodded, knowing that even with his back turned and the door reset against the frame, Sherlock would know.

He looked at his arm. The wound was smooth, just as the few wounds on his left thigh. He shook his head, an idiot in his own room, his sanctuary, in front of the genius, the detective—no, his best friend. And then there was his best friend, surprising him, as he always seemed capable, yet again. John was dressed quickly and comfortably, heading down stairs. He looked around the living room, between the chair and sofa, the shot-up wall with the smiley face, the mantel decorated and cluttered with a number of obscure and strange items, all of which belonging to Sherlock, and his past. He envied that he could see his past, and that Sherlock wasn't afraid to show it. His throat flexed and tightened, and he sunk into the sofa, feeling more than pathetic, waiting and preparing. He didn't get very far, because, silently, without his being aware, Sherlock was already taking a seat on the sofa, beside him. "I set tea," he informed.

"Thanks."

"John."

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Do try not to worry me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just be safe."

"So, I understand we're talking tonight, and probably for a good long time, and you probably will be keen to my every move, as you ought, but if I say anything, and perhaps it's something selfish, or pathetic, or… I don't know. But suppose I do, will you… not mention it after tonight?"

"If that's what you want."

"And…" His eyes flashed to Sherlock, quickly. "Also, can you ask the questions? I don't reckon I'm right enough to be able to bring things up."

Sherlock's chuckle eased John. "Have you been upset long?"

"No."

He could hear Sherlock's eyes roll. "How long?"

"A few days…"

"Why didn't you talk to me? Or post something?"

God, how was he going to say it? Any hesitance on John's part would alert Sherlock of his hiding something, but in order to make something up, he would have to have time… and he took too long. "I… don't know."

"Yes you do."

"It's just…"

"Spit. It. Out."

"I didn't want to di-sa—" his throat dried rapidly. "disappoint you. And so I didn't say anything. But then I felt stressed... stressed to... you know, not, uh... not disappoint you. And I... I am... not doing a great job, at the moment… and… it's really weak... and you shouldn't, uh, see me that way... you're opinion means more… more than you'll ever know."

John licked his lip without having known it, too interested by the way his hands just _fit together_. He became so engrossed in the sight of his hands as they interlocked, he was nearly almost able to forget the situation he was in. He almost forgot the looming threat of his younger self's vices, and the consulting detective sitting near him. He waited for an odd sort of reaction from him – he was unsure what his reaction would be, but he laced his fingers together before him and waited for the laughter, the pity, the anger. None of what John expected came, however, and he felt that close to a minute's time had passed without a word. He dared a glance at Sherlock when curiosity suddenly overpowered his want to keep his distance, and regretted it with such immediate force that the speed at which his head snapped back to its profile-view was incalculable. "So… yeah. I, uh, um…" John was surprised and alarmed that he didn't notice Sherlock staring directly at him.

"My dear, Watson."

Hearts have a way of getting in your throat, as John's did, both preventing his vocalization of amazement, while simultaneously showing off the rhythm of his blood-contracting muscle to anyone who might see. It felt that way. John was sure it was the truth.

"And um… that was partially… partially what… made me want to cut, one time. I… can't live up to you… or your skills… I'm very surprised you still have me around. Even if you don't for, for much longer, which is completely understandable, given the fact that you'd have to nanny me and waste time on my issues when you could be putting your mind to use."

"Is this what you honestly think?"

Nod-nod.

"Well… That's ridiculous. You're wrong, and I fail to understand why you think this, as I told you before that—"

"Sherlock, I know, I know, it's just in my head. I wouldn't even be telling you, I would live with it, but… well, I went and messed it up."

"I don't see how. And I prefer knowing."

"How? You know some dark things and I—"

A kettle screamed, begging to be pulled from the stove top. "Come," Sherlock urged. "You're not going anywhere, and you're not getting any time to synthesize an answer."

Sherlock led him by his uninjured limb. The kitchen was cluttered, yet it was more economical and better suited for the conversation they were having. Chamomile was set in two large mugs, scenting the room in a calming aroma, settling John's unsorted mind and giving Sherlock new, fresher lenses through which to focus his aims.

"Forget me," Sherlock started again. "I am no longer a factor as far as your answers are concerned, as you're having a difficult time believing my sincerity. Is that clear?"

"Okay."

Sherlock didn't like John's tone. He went on. "Just know that I'm serious. I'm not the joking kind, after all. But why blades, specifically? I understand not wanting to do drugs or alcohol—a doctor and brother to an alcoholic, I wouldn't be able to comprehend your turning to _those_ substances. But gambling, exercise, even smoking, are just as addictive and are used to relieve stress. Why blades?"

John laughed. "I don't often find something you don't know everything about, but when I do… it's very entertaining."

"You're trying to distract and mislead me. Stop it."

"Well… I don't know, what do you want me to say?"

John was trying his best to frustrate Sherlock, which, judging from the annoyance in his pressed brows, was working quite well."Congratulations, Mr. Watson, you've managed to successfully mask your humility, but in the process turn your back on a friend trying to do you good. What do I want? The truth, if you would be so kind."

"I'm not the one—"

"Get on with it!" Sherlock practically scream-shout-snarled. Thank goodness their not-housekeeper wasn't in.

John felt a little more obedient when seeing Sherlock in such a state, but was still willing to keep himself as distant as possible. "It feels right. It's sobering. It's disguisable. It's controllable. It's everything good, and I started as a boy. You'd appreciate the reasoning behind the first times I tried. I was actually bored."

"I get bored."

"And then you shoot up walls."

Sherlock huffed, trying to stay on point. "Yes, I do, sometimes, but I'm not shooting _people_ or myself or trying to bleed my arms dry! What is it that you take from this sort of behavior? I don't understand, and it is very upsetting because I'm bloody well trying to be understanding and sensitive, but you say you're _bored_! I get bored, too, yet I don't—"

"Did you ever get suicidal?"

Whoops. More information given than needed. Granted, that part of his life was over—his teen-years were the last he ever heard from his deadly friend, and he'd never actually made an attempt. But there were times when he felt damn near trying. And then he cut and felt better and went on to do all sorts of things with his life, the best choice of which was to follow Mike Stamford and meet a brilliant man. That very man was staring at him like he instantly grew a second head and punched him in the face, at the same time.

"No, I didn't. Not exactly. Not really. I've had my moods… but that's not the point."

It was a day for surprises, John found out, as he left Sherlock speechless. And again he was surprised when Sherlock got up from his rigid seat to stand directly in front of John. He placed a hand on each shoulder, and John wasn't sure exactly why he was doing so. Sherlock could clearly feel John's breathing quicken, could see the half-disguised look of uncertainty in his eyes, yet he didn't have any words to offer. This was the first time John had seen Sherlock this way, and it was more than a little fear inspiring. Was it to test John that he would do something so out of character? Was it to mock him, to tease with the idea of friendship that would later be taken away? But, no, that wasn't it.

"I… I'm sorry…" John caved, realizing something. He didn't want to give in—he'd resolved that it was best, in the end, to keep his privacy – but the very fact that Sherlock was making the effort to make contact with him, to actually partake in physical displays of affection, to try to be the friend he needed, was more than enough to break his strength.

"I am, too." Sherlock caught the expression on John's face and immediately realized what he had said came off in a different manner than he meant. "No, I'm not disappointed in you," he amended. "I'm sorry for the fact that you're compelled to bring harm to yourself, and I regret that I did not see the signs before. I am especially apologetic of my complete, ludicrous, annoying, arse-hole personality."

That was a successful attempt to bring a smile, however strained, to John's lips. " Well… thanks… and for the record, I'm not blaming you."

"I had no reason to think you were, as it was just a moment of pure weakness that must have brought this on." This, meaning the cutting. John remembered his shame.

"You're a delicate person with such fragile phrasing." John half laughed. He still had his nerves bundled and hotwired in his stomach, ready to surge and then burn out. "You don't have to, uh, you know," he indicated his shoulders, and the hands that still rested on them. It wasn't for a lack of wanting comfort in this particular moment that he did so, but for the sake of Sherlock, who, he could tell, was a little uncomfortable.

John took his tea with steadfast determination, giving Sherlock a good reason to pull back, which he gladly did. His tea remained untouched as Sherlock stared at him.

"Ahem." Bless you, John.

Sherlock caught the error of his conduct, and quickly changed his focus while saying what he'd been turning over in his mind, looking for the right phrasing. "I won't force you to tell me anything—but believe me, the curiosity is furious and I really doubt it will give me a moment's break, but I won't force you. And you also don't have to say anything about being suicidal, though that one I was far less concerned with, as I already had my suspicions about that in the first place. But no, not that I thought you've been suicidal for more than a few years, nor that you'd ever tried, as I've already had your medical records scanned for relevant information pertaining to your self-mutilation" – John tried really hard not to flinch, but regardless, Sherlock didn't or wouldn't have noticed— "and I came to a conclusive, nearly unmarked blank sheet. I was surprised, however, that you visited the hospital once for a hiking accident when a horse kicked you in the arse. Regardless, regardless, the fact still remains that you can speak freely, or not at all, though you should take note of the fact that I _am _here, should you ever change or not change your mind. And also—"

John raised a hand to shut up Sherlock. This was the most conclusive evidence—testimony— to Sherlock's humanity, if ever there was a doubt. Anderson would never know this side – not that he deserved to be honored by such a sight – and so he would never stop berating him, or stop spreading rumors, or calling him an emotionless robot. John smiled at this, thinking he was quite possibly the only person to know this side of Sherlock.

Non-stop verbal garbage would soon ensue if he'd let Sherlock continue. Sherlock didn't know how to handle anything, and it was both touching and hilarious to observe. He would have went from suicide and cutting and trust and medical records to experiments and observations of John's subconscious reactions to the in-depth description to those experiments and to cases and then the idiocy of criminals and the even-worse yet idiocy of the incompetent police officers who were seemingly adamant on staying stupid and incapable and dull… John half-rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I get it. And I thank you for your patience, and candor in regards to your feelings—"

"—what _are _you talkin—"

John steeled up, cutting Sherlock off. "I will…" Deep breath. John could say it. He knew he had to say it. "I will tell you more about it, but not today. It's, uh, not so clean-cut." Nice word choice. "It is messy and I might need time to work out some things on my own." Bloody fucking brilliant word choice. No, not at all, cutting wasn't on his mind.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say to this. It wasn't that he wouldn't have, but he had become caught in his own thoughts, which were focused on the topic of intimacy. Although he didn't find complete revulsion at doing something as sharing limited and brief contact with his blogger, it was not something he wanted to do on a normal, daily basis, and absolutely not with anyone beside John. Only if John might need him, or that sort of comfort, that sort of display of affection, and only under the right circumstance, and if he was able, would he attempt to comfort his friend. "That is okay," he settled on, retreating from the intricacy of his thoughts and finally registering what John said.

"Drink your tea," John was instructed, watching Sherlock turn his back and stride around the door, quickly hiding from view.

A few minutes into enjoying his tea, he heard a sudden laugh from the living room. "Aha! John! John!"

"What, you wanker?"

"We have a case!"

Oh. That's all. That's what was worth startling John into partially spilling tea on his lap. "_Really_? Oh, that's just jolly, Mr. I'm Always Bored and Need to Shout at Random Times to Scare My Flat-Mate into Sterilization—"

"I doubt I made your testicles shrink or otherwise become infertile, it's a physical impossibi—"

"I almost spilt scalding tea on myself, you—"

Sherlock was in the doorway quite quickly, wearing a stone-cold expression that John froze for a moment, waiting for what was about to come. "If I get called wanker once more, I might actually throw a dictionary at you and force you to read it. I'm serious. Repetition is so mind-numbingly dull and thoughtless, I don't know why you would partake in it. I'm surprised you actually like radio music, though I suppose it suits you, as your insults are mediocre and childish at best—"

"You bloody, goat-wanking, inflatable cock," John revised. "I nearly spilt tea on myself."

And they argued for a long time, but not before first finding the reason to leave the flat in pursuit of a case. Things fell back into what was meant to be, what their friendship expected, what their relationship _was_. There was an understanding, too, but it was obvious and didn't need explaining, and both knew, so things felt right.


	8. Updates

_Disclaimer! (Do I really need to say this?)_

_A/N Okay, I honestly didn't see that coming. I was writing this with something else in mind then, well, John decided to go in another direction..._

_Tell me what you think! I thrive from reviews, so don't be shy!_

_Criticism welcomed!_

_Enjoy_

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Medical Knife

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**Upload time: 5:34 pm, October 5 – Entry 31 [Fifteen Days]**

Nothing extraordinary has happened these past few weeks, since I last cut, which is why I haven't posted anything in so long. All I can say is that it's surprisingly not very tense, and normal… almost. I'm 15 days clean, by the way—not a scratch, not a mark. My flatmate has been surprisingly helpful and discreet when it comes to my latest (and last, hopefully) injuries. I'd mentioned before that, after I told him about succumbing to the temptation, he'd made it a rule that I be checked daily for scratches or for prolonging the healing of the injury. It's been an unspoken thing, up until now. He enters my room in the morning, calmly, naturally, as if it were normal for him to have to make sure I was alright, and he wouldn't say a word. Instead, he usually scans over me for a moment – he is always fast – then looks to me, and it's usually quite early, and I'm still groggy, but I get the feeling he is trying to tell me that he thinks I'm doing well. It was never said (nor was anything, for that matter), but it felt like he was worried. I can never tell, it always felt like a dream, and in return I wouldn't say anything either. We go about our days quite normally.

Until this morning, when I was due for a "check-up", when he stood, after examining my thigh injuries, and straightened his collar. He just stood there. And then I stared, and fidgeted a bit when I realized he was waiting for something. I asked him what he was waiting for, or if he wasn't happy with the progress of my healing, and he still didn't say anything. I was about to stand when he finally spoke. "You should ask more questions," was all he said before turning his back and left me to contemplate his unusual and disturbing behavior.

What the hell am I supposed to make of that?

_[15 Comments]_

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**Date Uploaded: October 8 – Entry/DELETED/**

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**Upload time: 3:40am, October 9 - Entry 32 [Untitled]**

Self-harm is the most ridiculous desire, I'm dead serious. Along with the strangest urge to harm yourself, you also scope out others of similar habit. You check their wrists, forearms, ankles (any exposed skin, really) just to see if they're that type of person. Maybe I do it because I don't want to be alone in this. Maybe I just want to pity someone. Maybe I want someone to take pity on me. I'm a less than observant person in most cases—well, I'm average, I suppose—but when it comes to injury, when it comes to illness, when it comes to trauma, I can detect it. It's bloody uncomfortable to be aware of these things.

Yesterday, I happened to run into someone bearing a great resemblance to my sister, down to the point of being hung-over. Granted, it was a work case on a Monday, and she was probably just a little worse for wear after the weekend, but still… it wasn't a pleasant reminder. Naturally, as a doctor, I did a check up on her after she felt dizzy, and I looked for scars (there weren't any, and I don't know why I was disappointed), and I prescribed her mild medication, but I was left with a strange question in my head, and I haven't been able to get it out: What gives me the right to be so unhappy?

I don't know how to answer that.

_[29 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 12:01 am, October 10 – Entry 33 [Untitled]**

It was brought to my attention (you know who you are) that the reason I might be unhappy is that I'm lonely. Well, I can't say that I'm lonely, per say—there are times I feel a little isolated, but mostly, I don't mind having few friends, or one-time dates, or anything of that sort. My business outside of the office is actually quite fulfilling.

If I think about it, I feel like I'm complaining when there's nothing to complain about.

Thank you, by the way—everyone who gave me support in regards to my self harm and who shared their stories about alcoholism and depression.

I'm not really in the mood to say much. I don't know, really. It's late and I should try to sleep.

_[10 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 4:16 am, October 20 – Entry 34 [Untitled]**

I've taken this week off work (both jobs) for medical reasons. That's all I have to share.

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**Upload time: 1:30 pm, October 22 – Entry 35 [Untitled]**

Why am I getting so many messages asking if I've committed suicide? Would I respond if I had?

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**Upload time: 4:30 am, October 22 – Entry 36 [Untitled]**

I'm not contemplating suicide, by the way.

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**Upload time: 7:00 am, October 23 – Entry 37 [Untitled]**

What the hell is it that I can't just get time alone? My flatmate has taken to checking in on my every hour, though the answers elude me as to why the bloody hell he'd be so damn priggish about it. With his talent for observing, he should be able to tell that I'm fine and not in need of supervision. I'm not a bloody child, I don't need supervision. I don't know why, but this morning he cleared out my drawers and sheets and mattress (among other things) and checked me twice for injuries (which are healing quite nicely, I might add). Whenever I ask him about his REAL motives for rearranging my room and acting so mysterious, he says that he trusts me less now, though for what reason I don't know.

That man. He gets on my nerves.

Beside my home life, I haven't gone back to work (to either job)—I've been too tired (and sore) lately. I suspect it's some sort of cold. I'm not sure where I got it from.

_[51 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 7:30 pm, October 23 – Entry 38 [Untitled]**

I might just delete this blog. He, the controlling cock with whom I share a flat, is reading my blog and has recently told me that my post about suicide is evidence of my thinking about committing suicide. (I've known he follows me.)

It should have come easily to him that I was only addressing the overwhelming amount of messages concerning my mental stability. Leave it to him to take it too far. Thanks to that, he has "forbid" me to enter the kitchen, bathroom (unless the door is unlocked or open), and his place of work, and I am not "allowed" to go to my job. This afternoon, he came home and told me that I had to leave the house with him, that he "couldn't risk it" – my being home alone. Like I wasn't alone the whole day.

As pissed as I am to have my privacy invaded, it makes me wonder what the hell I must look like to everyone if HE is acting this way. My landlady gave me a sweet smile when I got out of bed to follow the psycho to "the scene" (as I will now refer to regarding my second job). I didn't feel well enough to be out, so I really was of no use.

Funny. I don't feel like cutting. I don't feel a lot of things. My dreams (whenever I have one) haven't effected me these past… two (I think) weeks. Not the way they usually do. A lot of things are different, and for the life of me I can't tell what it is that changed.

_[70 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 2:00 am, October 24 – Entry 39 [Untitled]**

I just realized that it is me who changed. Me. I woke up a moment ago, and on my way to the loo, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I've never not recognized myself before, and it was… terrifying. My flatmate was in my doorway when I returned, and he just knew that I'd realized something. He looked to my wrists and to my legs quickly, then to my eyes. I suspect it was that he looked me in the eyes that made him aware of… something. God, I don't even know what it is, let alone what it's doing to me… "Get your sleep," he said, calmly as he always (almost always) was. "In the morning, we're doing something. And no, you will not ask questions, nor will you disregard me."

This put me off a bit—what does he have planned for tomorrow? No matter how hard I try, I can't stay awake any longer… I really don't want to wake up.

_[15 comments]_

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**Upload time: 4:00 pm, October 24 – Entry 40 [Untitled]**

I don't know why I was dreading waking up this morning. At nine this morning, my flatmate woke me and told me to get dressed. He said I needed additional structure to my life, so I was to follow him to the scene, and I was to participate and do as I usually am expected. He shoved a coffee into my hands and, after assuring that I hadn't recently harmed, left me to dress. I was tired, and I wasn't at my best, but I'm surprised that I did so well. The people I work along side were surprised I was out again.

I'm sitting in the living room and waiting for Chinese food delivery. I guess I hadn't been eating much, and although I'm not particularly hungry right now, I don't have much of a choice. My flatmate is making sure I eat. Oh. He's looking over my shoulder right now. Hello. Care to say a few words to the internet? No? Okay, goodbye, I'm glad you "approve" of my writing.

Bloody hell. Food came. Correction, I'm hungry.

_[50 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 9:30 pm, October 26 – Entry 41 [Untitled]**

Thank you. Everyone who checked in on me daily, who encouraged me to keep my head up, I thank you.

My flatmate is giving me more space, now that I'm "looking well". Better, I should say. Again, he said something peculiar, and I'm not sure what it means: "Timing is everything."

_[103 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 3:48 am, October 30 – Entry 42 [Untitled]**

It is either that I am tired, or wanting to hurt myself, lately. Where is the middle ground? While I am now capable of waking up at early hours and staying awake and overall operating like a capable human-being, I've now replace the dead-weight, strained eyes feeling of constant tire with the anxiety over NOT cutting. It's torturous, it's fucking horrible, it's completely ruining my ability to socialize—when I'm not (suddenly) dead-tired, that is. I don't know how I've gotten through the workdays, or how I even get through this day…

My trauma flashbacks are here again. They're coming on worse than ever – I don't know why I didn't want to not feel them. Not feeling them (or anything, for that matter) is bloody well better than having even a scrape, an inkling, of the increasingly vivid dreams. I think they're getting longer … I can actually feel my dreams again. They're painful. This one I just woke from still has my muscles in knots. I can't even get back to sleep.

My sister is back to drinking, and it's worse now—she's never had her stomach pumped before. I was stupid to think her recovery was getting on the way she said.

I don't really know what I'm doing anymore. There seems to be less and less of a reason to do anything, like get up from bed, or go for groceries, or do paper work. The light that shines outside my window in the morning is always so dull (at first). I often used to wake up at the right time, and experience the sun rise, and grow brighter and brighter. I haven't been getting much sleep at night, so I've been awake to see this nearly every day. It grows brighter, just as it ought… and today I realized that there's no promise any more. There's nothing to expect from the new day. ( Excitement and danger aren't really enticing, either.)

My flatmate is more concerned and he watches me much more intensely now. He's given up some of his work just to do so. He doesn't really say anything odd about the reasons why he is keeping an eye on me, he just acts normally (suspiciously, though, as I know better than to think he's not nosing around or doing something I'm not yet aware of). He's having me do way too much for him, though, and they're things I don't even think he really wants done. Busy work, I suppose. It's all becoming terribly trivial and I'm used to it. The only time it's different is when he gives me a look when he thinks I'm not being "observant", and it… it is very rarely that I see him fearful… I'd rather not deal with it right now, but… well, I don't know. I don't think I know how to feel—rather, how to distinguish what I feel. Not that I'm feeling much, nothing beyond bare instincts… it's quite odd, I don't know how else to describe it.

On an unrelated matter, yesterday, he played violin for hours, and I'd never heard him play that particular piece before. It stuck with me, sort of like the way an annoying radio song might stick with you. I guess that's a feeling.

_[72 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 8:00 pm, October 30 – Entry 43 [Untitled]**

I might as well tell him about what I'm having a hard time not doing. I said I would. I'm not sure how it'll help, but he deserves to know.

[10 Comments]

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**Upload time: 7:30 pm, October 31 – Entry 44 [Untitled]**

There are no blades for me to use. None, whatsoever. My flatmate was right to take them.

_[189 Comments]_

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**Upload time: 6:09 pm, November 11 – Entry 45 [Untitled]**

Well, I found a blade.

This hospital bed isn't very comfortable.

_[188 Comments]_


	9. Give and Take

Disclaimer! This, however, is my original fanfiction- my story line and dialogue.

R/R welcomed greatly!

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Medical Knife

John was asleep, which Sherlock thought for the better, seeing as he would have, probably, most definitely, had an argument with him—the last two times they'd been in each other's company tensions would rise high and fall hard. No matter now, he guessed – they had had enough time apart from the other that the preliminary raw-nerves had passed. Sherlock looked down to John's sleeping figure, the light from the hospital's hallway at his back, and the moon-lit shadows from the open window to his side. In his hand was a set of nail clippers, and in his mind was the collective imagery of most of the crime scenes he'd been present. Sure, those were people, by the dozen, whom he only paid attention because they died in an interesting way—brutally, creatively, in ways and with motive less or completely unexpected. They were faces that were never forgotten, no matter if Sherlock tried to delete them from his memory, and yet they were of no consequence. The blood and gore did little to unsettle him and more to appeal to the analytical and insatiably curious aspects of his intellect. It was a quick thought, one he didn't want to dwell on for longer than a passing detail might, but he'd suddenly realized how easily it was for someone to get hurt, if not by an assailant, then by one's own mind. Death did not bother Sherlock—wasn't that a part of living?— but the concept of John no longer existing did. What surprised him more was the fact that he hated that John wasn't satisfied with the life they had that he might be capable of… well, he didn't know. Whether it was a cutting accident or a suicide attempt, he and John weren't able to stay confined to the same immediate walls without an argument breaking out. But the peace on John's face, and Sherlock's willingness to take his friend's hand, was evidence that they'd passed the anger phase. Sherlock pulled a chair to set at the edge of John's bedding, between the night's light and the artificial light, taking care as he handled his friend's fingers.

John had his own room, so naturally that meant that he had privacy and no one to bother him or to change the channel on the telly, which Sherlock liked: It was easier to be alone with him, rather than with two sleeping bodies, one of which he would care nothing of and consider only a hindrance to progress. The door was, however, constantly open (something Sherlock begrudgingly accepted as a necessary precaution) and was leered into every ten minutes by a nurse assigned to suicide watch.

Sherlock didn't like that she saw him there when he was taking care of his friend. John had taken to not trimming his nails, and they were now quite long, and hard, and _sharp_—he began trimming them, methodically and with precision and patience. Sherlock noticed, before John was hospitalized, that he'd dig his nails into his palm frequently, and that his knees were sometimes red with scratching. John wrote it off on the convenient and well timed change of laundry detergent, which just drove John's sensitive skin twelve types of crazy. Nope, John wasn't doing it on purpose. Yes, he'd thought about cutting, but he would never slip up again. _Come on, Sherlock, give me more credit than that—I can control myself._ Control was the only word that Sherlock registered, the only one that really mattered. Control and secrecy. Sherlock swore under his breath, hating that he had made a better, more willing liar out of John—yet he wouldn't just let this self-abuse happen. If only John—

Sherlock shook his head quickly. No, he wouldn't think like that. There were better goals on which to focus, and they didn't require brooding or bitterness. John's hands were soft, giving Sherlock something to focus on. Thankfully, they were warm, and not cold, like a corpse, like the many he'd seen at crime scenes—

"Stop it," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. It wasn't often that he disliked hearing his own observational, logic-oriented thoughts. Nowadays, they never ceased to stop disturbing him, bringing up possibilities of John-less futures. He didn't understand his friend's harming, so it made I very easy for him to think of the worse outcome. This is why sentiment is a weakness, and why it was idiotic of him to allow such attachments to be made.

That was true, in most cases. But, as much as it could upset, it rewarded tenfold. John was worth the worry, the uncertainty, the _fear…_

The window, cracked just an inch to let in fresh November air, was left uncovered, and showered the detective in the light of the moon, stars, and London nightlife. It caught his attention for a long while, and on this particularly clear night, it gave him the opportunity to stress his knowledge of stars and consolations and mythology, all in counting the shimmering beacons that graced the sky.

In reviewing his knowledge of Mayan astrology and myth, he forgot that he was holding John's hand, having idly dropped the nail clippers to the white blanket that covered his sleeping silhouette. He forgot that John's hand came to be wrapped in both of in his sets of fingers, grasped onto like something important and treasured, a body that still contained warmth and flowing blood, whose synapses still allowed their neurons to converse with one another.

He still didn't realize how tightly he held John, even when John groaned slightly and shifted his head, hair messily twisted and strewn on the blue pillow. His eyes opened slowly, and Sherlock was the first thing he saw when the blur faded.

"Sherlock?" What was that—the feeling surrounding his left hand?

"It's quite late, John, I recommend you attempt to attain adequate sleep." Sherlock sounded very calm, though his heart beat just a touch faster. And still, he kept his hands folded around John's palm, still ignorant of his show of emotion.

John breathed in and out, then groaned, then tried to rub his eyes when he realized that something very fleshy was restraining him. It was when John pulled back a touch that Sherlock noticed what he had done, and immediately he released his hold and let his hands instead rest on his own lap.

John swallowed, recognizing the sentiment and not wanting to burden his friend with the visible recognition of such a thing. "I, uh, don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep quite so quickly…"

Sherlock, John observed, was still wearing his trade-marked coat. Well, it wasn't much of an observation, but it was the best he could do to assess the situation. Obviously, Sherlock was calmed down since their last meeting, two days prior.

"I see they took the handcuffs off," Sherlock noted, though only for the sake of small talk. He hated small talk.

"Well, yeah, I reckon they would, as I'm discharged in the morning."

Snippy, Sherlock thought. "That is right, isn't it?" Of course he knew. Small talk, right? That's all he thought they should attempt, nothing of value, nothing so hasty.

John smiled a bit. "You can drop it, you know, if you'd like – the niceties, I mean."

"Oh? Lestrade told me it would be best to remain light-hearted."

John righted himself in his bed quite uncomfortably, stiff and languid and hazy from a long sleep. "Well, that was nice of him."

"Indeed."

"Sherlock, can you look at me?"

Sherlock absentmindedly stared off into the sky, not intending to do so. His gaze resettled to match John, whose eyes, for once, glimmered with life—something resembling life, something more than the undead stare he'd accommodated as his mood turned to ruins. Sherlock smirked at him. "Are you going to scold me for the scent you, undoubtedly, are now inhaling, and recognize as tobacco?"

John normally would have rolled his eyes, finding Sherlock's observation an attempt to showoff. Now, however, he didn't care about Sherlock's arrogance. "You've been smoking?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

John really didn't want to be mad, or sad, but there wasn't any use in thinking he could stop himself from feeling. He'd tried that – detachment – and it didn't work. Now, as he let himself, in his half-awake state, feel something _honest_, and visible, and vulnerable, he let his voice shake and his chest rumble with every word he failed to properly give volume to. "Jesus… Sherlock, please tell me you're not doing anything else."

"That would be lying. Fortunately enough, though, I don't have to lie to give you the answer you seek. No. I'm not…"

The nurse stuck her head into the door, hearing voices, and John's reaction to her peeping alerted Sherlock to her presence. She wanted to say something, but it was apparent to her that they were having a much-needed conversation—an upgrade from their previous shouting matches. They were alone again, and John hadn't managed to control his slightly elevated pulse.

Sherlock's baritone voice was even harsher when he whispered. "John… I do not appreciate this."

John redirected his stare from the wall and its scarcity to Sherlock, and the expression he was met with was confusing. Displayed across striking and sharp features was a mix of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

"What?" John's voice came like a broken whisper.

"Hypocrisy. You do not have the right to be upset that I am smoking again when you cannot stop yourself from doing something _just as dangerous_. Even more so. I don't even care if you dislike that it is the stress you cause me that has made it easier for me to smoke."

John didn't try to vocalize the words _I'm sorry_, attempting, instead, to convey it in his fixation.

"You know, John, I've been quite curious lately about what it is about harm that makes it so bloody irresistible, about what the bloody hell it is you can't turn away from. I asked questions about it before and you gave me minimalistic answers because I suppose you thought I wasn't serious or was going to turn my back on you or something so bloody ridiculous that I can't even conceive of its nature. Why do you doubt everything? Where is it you went so wrong that you can't appreciate yourself enough to keep your body in decent repair—no, you don't even get to mention my neglect to myself, because I've been screwed up for the entirety of my life, and it is not me who is on trial. I bloody well did stop smoking, in fact – do you realize that I did it for you? No, I suppose that went over your head, just like everything else of relevance. I stopped doing drugs as well, and I eat when you ask. I even take more precautions in investigations – all things I did under your advisement, all things I didn't want to do but did so anyway because I fucking cared enough to do it. You know what?"

John shook his head – there wasn't a force strong enough in the world that would make him speak. Anything he said would be considered bollocks, no matter the apology, the regret. Never before had he felt so… depressed. Never before had he felt so strongly the need to change—he knew it was a necessity. He knew that he had to listen to every cruel word Sherlock would whisper angrily.

Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, already having a medical knife in hand (having procured it from his deep pocket, something he had with him for several days). "I've been curious for a long time now," his voice was like poison to John's ears, low and secretive.

"No, no—" John reached forward, inspired and forced to take action, like the distant and unrecognizable soldier he'd once been. Even more so, a healer: someone born with the instinct to save a life and the heart large enough to find importance in each one saved, lost, or unharmed.

He couldn't stop Sherlock from taking off his jacket, too groggy from the sedatives Sherlock snuck into his system (through the use of his glucose drip, perhaps?). Sherlock shoved John back with one hand, then stood to shut the door while he rolled up a sleeve of his pin-striped shirt. The room was bright with the light of the moon-filled sky. "No, John, you don't get to make that request."

What was it he drugged John with? His arms were limper than mere sleep-deprivation would cause, yet his awareness was spiking—probably from adrenaline.

Sherlock took up his seat again, knife at the ready having set down a metal pan at his feet for the impending blood to collect. John was begging every way he could. "Sherlock! Please! You can't—"

A sharp, piercing sensation came from the look John was given. "Watch me—" Sherlock paused, his scalpel pressed against the ghostly, glowing skin of his outstretched right forearm. It was ready to be pulled against an expanse of skin, muscle, and tendon. It bled just a nearly invisible amount, skin fractured at the pressure point of the smooth, razor edged instrument.

John urged himself onto his knees and a hand, the other arm moving to Sherlock. His eyes were wide with panic, wet with fear, imbed with guilt. "No," he said as firmly and quietly as he could, horror in his tone. "Please, please, _please _– no, don't do that—" Sherlock moved his blade just a bit, deepening the speared end into himself. Sherlock looked at him, waiting for him to talk.

John almost didn't want to talk—glass domes break easily, and this one he wanted to preserve, to not shatter in a bloody mess.

"I'm waiting." Sherlock was actually bored? "This isn't too bad, actually."

"Dear, god—fuck, no, don't do that—it'll hurt at first!"

"Isn't that the point?"

"Sherlock, it won't get out of your head! It'll stay there! It'll feel good! You'll never want to leave it behind, even when it gets out of control, even when you _want _to stop…" John tried desperately to not raise his voice. He tried desperately to not envy Sherlock his blade. "It… it'll control you. Even when you_ do _stop. It'll be your only option, it'll be the only option you care to consider. It'll kill you when you go too deep, it'll kill you when you want to go that deep. It'll… it'll demand more and more and then you end up in a bloody hospital, and you'll be so mad at yourself for acting so stupidly, you'll actually want to die… you'll want to die when you see your friends and family come through the fucking door, when they look at you and it's obvious that you did something to yourself and they have to try to understand it. It's not something you understand, and it's sure as hell not something you can just explain… It happens when you're bored, sad, mad, happy… I… I find that it controls you… even when it seems like you have control… Sherlock, you have no idea—and there's no reason for you to. I'm so sorry. I know you're mad… I deserve it... just don't start this. Even for curiosities sake, you can't do this. You have an addictive personality… For my sake, you can't…"

John stared out with the passion and heat of someone far more energetic than he, at present, was, and faded into a calmness and understanding as he both spoke and noticed Sherlock's resolve falter.

Sherlock smiled sharply to John when silence was all there was to be heard, removing the blade and setting it at the bedside table. He then proceeded to roll his sleeves up, staining them in a few droplets of blood. "If you put it _that_ way, it doesn't really sound so appealing. Oh well." Sherlock raised his eye brows and rolled his eyes and spoke so lightly that it suddenly clicked in John's drug addled brain: this was a scare tactic. And he, a soldier, having roomed with a detective for well over a year, should have recognized one.

"You cock."

"Guilty, I give you that." Sherlock laughed, genuinely, staring at John who wasn't quite able to process anything, now that his emotional and argumentative limits had been reached. "In a few hours, we'll be following my lead on my current case. I've been doing my best even when I'm so far away from the case, what with my concern for you, but I don't think it'll be too much to handle now."

"And you fucking cut my nails," John observed, rubbing his left hand's fingers into his palm and finding them bare.

"Just hygiene, something you might want to keep up with every so often."

John fell back into his bed. "You fucking cock. That scared the shit out of me."


	10. Interlude

Disclaimer!

A/N This is a flashback to the first night John woke up in the hospital... I don't really know what this chapter was intended for, but I don't reckon I would, as it's about 4Am and I'm really tired but I just couldn't get these two boys out of my head. Basically, think of it as a filler while I write more on the serious issues.

Please, read and review! And, as always, enjoy!

* * *

Medical Knife

Things like this don't just _happen_. Half-killing yourself isn't the product of the actions of one who intends to live—which John, up until the point of needing hospitalization, was able to convince himself of. Of course there are other faucets and depths that needed to be explored, and in all honesty, it was, mostly, an accident. It just wasn't preceded by caution, something John always took into account before taking the risk of applying blade to skin.

John was, also, never one to use the word "depressed", even if that's what he was (for no apparent reason, he often sadly thinks to himself). He would feel "a bit unwell" or was having a "not so good day". Even for moods that lasted well over two weeks, he was only "tired". _Oh, never mind my mood, I've not been getting proper rest._

Accidents don't _really _happen—not when you're the person to blame for the accident, not when you're doing something you know is less than an act in favor of your well-being.

Although he didn't say it out loud, when John woke up in a hospital gown and in a hospital bed and attached to a machine that monitored his vitals, he knew he'd pushed too far, that something was, obviously, amiss in his life. In the following seconds, the day prior and all its nuances and biased emotional recollections came to him. His memory was branded with the grief he was feeling when he left the flat—why did Sherlock have to say anything to John when all he needed was a friendly companion to sit in silence with? It was well past midnight when John stormed away, out to do whatever he would without the interest of Sherlock monitoring his every mood. He came back quickly, which he assumed Sherlock predicted, as the detective didn't bother to try to follow him. It turns out that Sherlock failed to predict that, while John did return within thirty minutes, he would return with something concealed in his jacket pocket.

John didn't have the will to override whatever drove him to go to the 24-hour convenience store and purchase a box-cutter. When he returned to his flat, Sherlock didn't say a word to him. Obviously, he was pouting, and probably involved in his own little world without much care to keep track of John – John was particularly thankful for the distraction Sherlock's Mind Palace often provided him with.

Their argument was ridiculous, in retrospect—John sat up in his hospital bed, recalling the stupid little cutting-fit he'd thrown in protest to the rising disturbance within him, against the words of his previous encounter with Sherlock. His right arm was now dressed with medical wrappings up to the crook of his elbow, and his wrists were cuffed to either side-bar. He judged it to be just before six pm, as the sun was either just setting or just rising—he guessed the former because he was, now, all too familiar with the falsities of the rising sun, the promises for a new day that it offered yet, lately, didn't even try to deliver. The hue was all wrong. The hue was darker, bluer, not at all like the red of a West-going sun—the light on the window sill was of moon descent.

"You were undernourished," a deep voice commented. "That, and the amount of blood loss, caused you to pass out."

John's heart monitor spiked momentarily before his brain made use of his long-term memory. The room was somewhat laid-back – he saw immediately that it was a single-room—with a silenced telly, a potted tree-bush-plant thing, some lovely paintings adorning the wall closest to him, on his right; there were two lamps, but only one was giving off light, the sort of light found in lounges, though tainted in the twilight of the open window. It was beside that window that Sherlock was seated, in a more comfortable arm chair, near a coffee table with stacks of disposable plastic cups that John assumed once held a caffeinated beverage. Sherlock was a bit tired looking, though quite engaged as he looked up from the phone he had probably spent the last hour staring into. John recognized that Sherlock was at "work", as Sherlock still took on cases whenever he found one of interest, despite caring for John most hours of the day. He managed to solve eleven over the phone in the time since John became overwhelmingly "a little unwell". He was probably in the middle of solving one just then, when John woke up and disturbed him.

All the words that would have come to be voiced by John were apologies and regrets, which Sherlock picked up on nearly immediately. It was still too fresh for Sherlock to feel any real anger, and he instead felt the need to preserve his friend's delicate state of mind. He felt a bit concerned for the painfully aware glint in John's eyes as he woke. Initially, he felt fear when he ventured to the loo in search of peroxide, only to find John sitting on the floor next to the tub, passed out in a small puddle of blood. Curiosity soon followed when the doctors told him the John was fine except for minimal malnutrition and a lack of sensibility.

Sherlock made it a point to keep his stare fixated on John, to read the signs of disconnect of his first moments after waking up in a hospital. John looked at his wrists, then back up.

"Um, I'm unsure why I'm handcuffed to the bed…" His voice was hoarse. Naturally, it would be, as it had been nearly 30 hours since he'd last said anything, and even worse the fact that the last time he'd said anything, it was a yelling competition between him and Sherlock. No matter the reason, it remained a fact that John's voice was very small, and very uncertain. The heart monitor made annoying sounds to a quickening pace.

"I fail to see how you don't understand, but, if you'd like, I could explain the situation."

"I…"

"As it is uncertain whether or not you intended to kill yourself—"

"I didn't—"

Sherlock proceeded to stare at John in a vey silence-inspiring way, a way that made you question his intentions for the intensity of his steady, upholding gaze. It said _shut up_. It was a warning, because, as the moments of John's waking passed, it became easier and more acceptable for anger to take its place on the mantle of things Sherlock considered acting from. Sherlock had the capacity to recognize the effort John made to keep himself awake and knew it would be very priggish of him to start yelling and spouting off about everything that bothered him _now_. Sherlock knew he was tired only for the fear of confrontation – he'd tested it multiple times and it held up – but it didn't matter. "Sleep," he said, controlling himself, returning to his attention to his phone. "I am about to inform Lestrade that the father killed his daughters— she was murdered by the use of a _snake_, which is quite extraordinary, as it is impossible—well, nearly impossible – to train a snake to do such advanced tricks and then to do so with some amount of secrecy. The father killed his children with a snake and kept a circus and herd of animals of all sorts on his property of dozens and dozens of acres…"

Sherlock intentionally spoke on and on, subtly encouraging his blogger to nod off, to let himself recover. John didn't seem to understand this, but was thankful nonetheless to be able to escape confrontation, as he was unable to speak to any degree of accuracy exactly what he intended the last time he harmed himself. All he knew, as he listened to Sherlock's calming voice prattle on about case details, was that he was exhausted, even after many hours of sleep. He knew, just before he slipped off into the great nothing of a dreamless sleep, was that Sherlock was watching him – well, watching out for him. Yes, he was under the penetrating gaze of the observational, logical, deducing genius, but it was for the right reasons that he observed him. To keep him safe from himself… that was a comforting thought to John as he allowed himself to nod off into a sleep of sorts, one where he had no dreams, but a strange awareness of the company he was presently in as he did so.

John was, also, never one to use the word "depressed", even if that's what he was (for no apparent reason, he often sadly thinks to himself). He would feel "a bit unwell" or was having a "not so good day". Even for moods that lasted well over two weeks, he was only "tired". _Oh, never mind my mood, I've not been getting proper rest._

Accidents don't _really _happen—not when you're the person to blame for the accident, not when you're doing something you know is less than an act in favor of your well-being.

Although he didn't say it out loud, when John woke up in a hospital gown and in a hospital bed and attached to a machine that monitored his vitals, he knew he'd pushed too far, that something was, obviously, amiss in his life. In the following seconds, the day prior and all its nuances and biased emotional recollections came to him. His memory was branded with the grief he was feeling when he left the flat—why did Sherlock have to say anything to John when all he needed was a friendly companion to sit in silence with? It was well past midnight when John stormed away, out to do whatever he would without the interest of Sherlock monitoring his every mood. He came back quickly, which he assumed Sherlock predicted, as the detective didn't bother to try to follow him. It turns out that Sherlock failed to predict that, while John did return within thirty minutes, he would return with something concealed in his jacket pocket.

John didn't have the will to override whatever drove him to go to the 24-hour convenience store and purchase a box-cutter. When he returned to his flat, Sherlock didn't say a word to him. Obviously, he was pouting, and probably involved in his own little world without much care to keep track of John – John was particularly thankful for the distraction Sherlock's Mind Palace often provided him with.

Their argument was ridiculous, in retrospect—John sat up in his hospital bed, recalling the stupid little cutting-fit he'd thrown in protest to the rising disturbance within him, against the words of his previous encounter with Sherlock. His right arm was now dressed with medical wrappings up to the crook of his elbow, and his wrists were cuffed to either side-bar. He judged it to be just before six pm, as the sun was either just setting or just rising—he guessed the former because he was, now, all too familiar with the falsities of the rising sun, the promises for a new day that it offered yet, lately, didn't even try to deliver. The hue was all wrong. The hue was darker, bluer, not at all like the red of a West-going sun—the light on the window sill was of moon descent.

"You were undernourished," a deep voice commented. "That, and the amount of blood loss, caused you to pass out."

John's heart monitor spiked momentarily before his brain made use of his long-term memory. The room was somewhat laid-back – he saw immediately that it was a single-room—with a silenced telly, a potted tree-bush-plant thing, some lovely paintings adorning the wall closest to him, on his right; there were two lamps, but only one was giving off light, the sort of light found in lounges, though tainted in the twilight of the open window. It was beside that window that Sherlock was seated, in a more comfortable arm chair, near a coffee table with stacks of disposable plastic cups that John assumed once held a caffeinated beverage. Sherlock was a bit tired looking, though quite engaged as he looked up from the phone he had probably spent the last hour staring into. John recognized that Sherlock was at "work", as Sherlock still took on cases whenever he found one of interest, despite caring for John most hours of the day. He managed to solve eleven over the phone in the time since John became overwhelmingly "a little unwell". He was probably in the middle of solving one just then, when John woke up and disturbed him.

All the words that would have come to be voiced by John were apologies and regrets, which Sherlock picked up on nearly immediately. It was still too fresh for Sherlock to feel any real anger, and he instead felt the need to preserve his friend's delicate state of mind. He felt a bit concerned for the painfully aware glint in John's eyes as he woke. Initially, he felt fear when he ventured to the loo in search of peroxide, only to find John sitting on the floor next to the tub, passed out in a small puddle of blood. Curiosity soon followed when the doctors told him the John was fine except for minimal malnutrition and a lack of sensibility.

Sherlock made it a point to keep his stare fixated on John, to read the signs of disconnect of his first moments after waking up in a hospital. John looked at his wrists, then back up.

"Um, I'm unsure why I'm handcuffed to the bed…" His voice was hoarse. Naturally, it would be, as it had been nearly 30 hours since he'd last said anything, and even worse the fact that the last time he'd said anything, it was a yelling competition between him and Sherlock. No matter the reason, it remained a fact that John's voice was very small, and very uncertain. The heart monitor made annoying sounds to a quickening pace.

"I fail to see how you don't understand, but, if you'd like, I could explain the situation."

"I…"

"As it is uncertain whether or not you intended to kill yourself—"

"I didn't—"

Sherlock proceeded to stare at John in a vey silence-inspiring way, a way that made you question his intentions for the intensity of his steady, upholding gaze. It said _shut up_. It was a warning, because, as the moments of John's waking passed, it became easier and more acceptable for anger to take its place on the mantle of things Sherlock considered acting from. Sherlock had the capacity to recognize the effort John made to keep himself awake and knew it would be very priggish of him to start yelling and spouting off about everything that bothered him _now_. Sherlock knew he was tired only for the fear of confrontation – he'd tested it multiple times and it held up – but it didn't matter. "Sleep," he said, controlling himself, returning to his attention to his phone. "I am about to inform Lestrade that the father killed his daughters— she was murdered by the use of a _snake_, which is quite extraordinary, as it is impossible—well, nearly impossible – to train a snake to do such advanced tricks and then to do so with some amount of secrecy. The father killed his children with a snake and kept a circus and herd of animals of all sorts on his property of dozens and dozens of acres…"

Sherlock intentionally spoke on and on, subtly encouraging his blogger to nod off, to let himself recover. John didn't seem to understand this, but was thankful nonetheless to be able to escape confrontation, as he was unable to speak to any degree of accuracy exactly what he intended the last time he harmed himself. All he knew, as he listened to Sherlock's calming voice prattle on about case details, was that he was exhausted, even after many hours of sleep. He knew, just before he slipped off into the great nothing of a dreamless sleep, was that Sherlock was watching him – well, watching out for him. Yes, he was under the penetrating gaze of the observational, logical, deducing genius, but it was for the right reasons that he observed him. To keep him safe from himself… that was a comforting thought to John as he allowed himself to nod off into a sleep of sorts, one where he had no dreams, but a strange awareness of the company he was presently in as he did so.


End file.
